


Phenomenon

by Cyberphantom (Shendin)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Action, Gen, Sci-Fi, contemporary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5152016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shendin/pseuds/Cyberphantom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the 21st century. The Earthwide Paranormal Investigation Committee detects a disturbance within the Opéra Garnier, and accordingly sends their best agent, Dr. Richard Sullivan, to investigate.</p><p>Soon, Erik is brought into the modern world as a Phenomenon, an unexplained actualization of urban legend, and is carefully watched over by Dr. Sullivan—and encouraged by Megan, Sullivan's daughter—as he adapts to contemporary life...and not without success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Author of this Singular Work Informs the Reader of the Certainty that the Opera Ghost Really Exists

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I'm very reserved about my writing, so I thought it's time I come out of my shell.  
> I don't know how often I'm going to update this, seeing as I'm currently working on a real novel and would rather devote most of my time to that.  
> Other characters / elements will appear later in the manuscript, but it'll be a while. I'll update the tags as I go. If you wish to keep track of my thoughts and musings regarding this work, feel free to follow me at cyberphantom.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, be warned: I'm a creature prone to re-editing my own work.
> 
> If you like please leave a kudos and/or comment. Enjoy!

The opera ghost really exists.

He was, and is still believed to be, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, and a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloakroom attendants, and the concierge. And yet he exists, in flesh and blood, although he remains a legend to but a few; that is to say, a secret of a most spectral shade.

It happened on one fated night in the middle of April. It happened, unbeknownst to those who still resided in the opera house at that lonely hour—the janitors, the electricians, the bleary-eyed staff and the vermin that crawled undetected within the house proper. At near 11 o’clock, the police entered the Opéra Garnier. The officers talked to the manager, the staff, and anyone else worthy of being informed, as needed, if needed. They were simply looking for squatter activity, and they searched around for forty minutes before thanking the staff for their cooperation and bidding them a good-night. Hardly anyone could think anything of it.

If one had walked out of the west entrance to the Opéra Garnier during this search and onto a one-way street known as the Rue Scribe, they might have seen what looked like a single police car and a black police van parked upon the sidewalk, before the gated driveway that once served as a _porte cochere_ in days of old. That night, security cameras facing the Rue Scribe recorded two men exiting the building, getting into these vehicles, and driving off twenty minutes before midnight, and nothing about it gave anyone any reason to question it. It would be years to come before a handful of rag-tag aficionados acquire this footage and deduce it was edited by advance computer software, hacked remotely. No one would believe them.

In the days that followed, only one thing hinted that anything unusual transpired, and that was the ramblings of an old man, a janitor, employed at the Opéra Garnier for the last thirty years. This poor soul, known to very few by his actual name, Armand Goreaud, had been working only the night-shifts, and would talk about ghostly whispers he heard and the existence of hollow walls he found, talk that only served to excite the tourists and annoy the staff members. But since that night in April, Armand ceased his superstitious postulations, except for the mumble he gave if asked:

“This house is haunted no more.”

If he believed there was a connection between the police cars and the sudden absence of the “whispers,” he never spoke of it.

But that was then. These days, it’s very hard to get anyone working at the Opéra Garnier to talk comfortably about the famous opera ghost, especially to a tourist. They will not say anything that hasn’t already been said before, and will repeat all the old sentiments and explanations, and then send you on your way no more enlightened than before. But if one were more than just a tourist, and had the opportunity to ask someone of a higher authority—say, the manager herself—the response would vary slightly. The manager may give you a look before claiming the opera ghost was nothing but a story, but then her eyes would shift momentarily along the walls as if searching for their approval, or affirmation, or some confirmation that the line she delivered satisfied their expectations of her. It’s very strange indeed.

It all goes back to that mild night in April, before the police officers arrived. Below the grand stage, seven floors down, there was the vast, watery catacomb framed by old and molding walls and archways. The only source of light came from the floor above, shining through the slatted grates that led down to these subterranean levels. In the murky, brackish waters swam a pale race of carp that are rumored to have been introduced by an ancient Japanese Emperor. That night, another body inhabited the waters of the opera lake, a body the carp avoided for its apparent state of decay. It floated, half-submerged, in the hall of one catacomb, far from the shaft of light that fell from the grates above.

It lay there, like a drowned man. Like a corpse.

And then it twitched.


	2. Is it a Ghost?

Dr. Richard Sullivan moved very calmly for a man under pressure. He walked with ease though his stride carried him briskly down the halls. Behind him, his assistant, Dominique, was failing to look so composed. Oh yes, the boy tried to emulate his mentor’s airs, but the well-built twenty-five-year-old betrayed his nervousness by the way he gripped the straps of his heavy backpack—tightly.

Dr. Sullivan wondered why the boy had been assigned to such a dangerous mission.

 _They’re getting desperate,_ he thought.

At fifty-two years old, Sullivan was considered old for this line of work, but he was more knowledgeable and skilled than anyone other agent in the industry, and therefore indispensable. Perhaps that’s why Dominique was assigned on this mission with him—they knew Sullivan wouldn’t last forever and they needed competent agents. Perhaps the boy had potential.

He turned back to the task at hand; they were walking through the north wing of the Opéra, the area considered to be “backstage”. It was the part of the opera house that was not often seen by tourists or patrons, full of dressing rooms, ball-rooms and studios, all of it equipped for performers and stage-hands. Sullivan had his police badge and cover story ready in case they encountered anyone, but their goal was to avoid being seen. He wasn’t worried about cameras; his Mobi fed a loop to whatever camera he passed.

He checked it again. The device on his wrist showed his location in the opera house on a blue map. Pale dots indicated other bodies. None of them were near. He tapped a light on his Mobi.

“Sir.” The English-speaking voice was not Dominique’s. It came through his earpiece, a thing that looked for all the world like a hearing aid. The woman who spoke was from headquarters.

“Yes?” Sullivan said in a low voice. Dominique jumped slightly at the sound but the doctor waved his hand for silence.

“You’d better hurry. We’re detecting activity that suggests higher consciousness. The target has completed its neo-genesis.”

“Thanks for letting me know.” Sullivan felt for the stun-gun in his coat.

“Godspeed, Agent Silver.” And then she was out.

“We better hurry, Dominique.”

“Yessir,” he replied.

They entered the door that led onto the stage, and Sullivan mentally reeled at the vast sea of modern technology at which they suddenly found themselves at the bottom of. Lights, catwalks, metal piping and scenic drops, all standing in stark contrast to the century-old building it lived in. But he didn’t look for long.

“Come, boy,” he said to Dominique. His assistant followed him to another door, and with a push they found themselves descending a narrow metal stairway into another bizarre world below the stage, one of red metal pillars and giant, ancient wooden gears lined up in rows, rope caught in their teeth. The two men continued without pause down another cramped stairway.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Down, down, down they went, descending stairs not meant for tourists, but for stagehands, workers, who knew the secrets of this world that one could only guess.

Soon they came to the great trench of the opera, the bottom-most floor of the great machine of the stage. What Dominique saw were iron grates in the ground, gated. One of these Dr. Richard Sullivan opened to reveal a pit of blackness, the electric light above them shining down onto brackish, murky water. The only way down was a rusted ladder.

“Bag,” Sullivan said. Dominique dropped the bag from his shoulders and unpacked its contents—a collapsed inflatable boat, which they fed through the small opening of the trapdoor before pulling the cord to inflate it. From the bag Dominique pulled out two other devices. They were night vision goggles. Sullivan took a pair and strapped them on.

“Now, whatever you see down there, I want you to keep calm and do exactly as I say, understand?” The boy nodded in response. “Don’t do anything unless I say so.”

He eased his way onto the yellow raft. Dominique pulled two collapsible oars from the backpack and passed one to Sullivan after joining him on the raft, the empty bag on his shoulders again. They paused for a moment as Sullivan checked his Mobi.

A red dot was blinking on his map.

Nodding, memorizing the location of the dot, Sullivan lowered his night-vision goggles and together he and his assistant rowed into the darkness.

Around them the vast network of stone and glassy floors appeared green and hazy. The ancient brickwork looked ragged, crushed, melded after a century of bearing the weight of the house above. Mildew riddled the walls. Sullivan turned the boat down through one opening leading them into a corridor lined with archways. The two men gazed through them, alert, attentive. Dominique spied, above the arches, old, iron nails bored into the concrete walls. Idly he wondered if lanterns were hung there, some period long ago.

In his peripheral vision he saw two pinpoints of green light and focused on them.

And he screamed.

Sullivan jumped, the boat rocked, and he looked at his assistant with irritation and excitement.

“What is—keep it down! What did you see!?” he demanded. Most of Dominique’s face was covered by his goggles, but Sullivan could see he was visibly trembling. Dominique looked back at the spot and saw nothing but rippling water. From the boat, perhaps?

“I saw…sir, I…I don’t know what I saw.”

“What did it look like?”

“A skull with glowing eyes—”

“Shit. That’s him.” Dominique looked horrified.

“Are you seri—!?” Sullivan silenced him with a “ _shh!_ ”

“ _Seri…seri…seri…_ ” said the echo.

“Hand up,” Sullivan said in a low voice. “Do not let your guard down.” He pulled the stun-gun out of his coat. He placed his arm at the level of his head and…waited.

The boat was tipped over with a sudden, angry lurch and the doctor and his assistant went overboard. Dominique screamed before the murky waters took him, his vision turning black as he was submerged. He was dragged down by a force that wrapped itself around his neck and squeezed, pinning him down at the very bottom of the lake. He flailed, trying to hit whatever it was that had a hold of him, but it anticipated his movements.

 _I’m going to die,_ he thought. _I’m going to die!_

Then the force released him, strength sliding away. Dominique kicked off the bottom of the lake and shot to the surface, gasping for breath in the utter darkness. He searched for the boat with his hands.

“Dr. Sullivan!” he gasped. “Doctor, sir!”

He heard another body break the surface, and a gasp. Light cast itself about the room as Sullivan raised his flashlight out of the water.

“The boat,” he croaked, pointing his light towards the little craft. Dominique swam over to the raft and flipped it over. He clambered on and collapsed.

The doctor hauled something up next to him, and the young man recoiled.

It was a corpse.

“Handsome chap, isn’t he?” said Sullivan, lifting himself into the boat. He pulled the corpse up after him. It was a terrible thing; deathly pale skin of varying textures was pulled tightly over a human skeleton. Dominique couldn’t see its face, the way it lay. He then noticed the dart in the corpse’s side, where Sullivan had rammed it.

Dominique leaned over the side of the raft and puked.

“Didn’t I say not to leave any evidence?” the doctor said with a sigh.

“The fish’ll eat it,” Dominique mumbled.

“I mean the goggles.” He held up his soaked and useless night-vision goggles. “You dropped yours.” Dominique scanned the murky water and saw nothing.

“Damn…” he said.

“We’ll have headquarters pick it up later,” Sullivan replied. “We can’t compromise this mission.” He tapped his Mobi. “We’ve captured the target,” he relayed to headquarters. “Begin phase two.”

“Target-capture a success,” said the woman in his earpiece. “Initiating phase two.” She cut out.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” They paddled back toward the hallway with the iron grates and the blessed light, neither of them looking at the skeleton that lay between them.

“I’m sorry sir,” Dominique said.

“You did fine,” Sullivan said. “Just as well as I hoped.” He would give headquarters a full report on Dominique’s performance later.

“Are we just going to carry him back up the way we came?” the boy asked.

“No, of course not,” Sullivan said. “We’re going to take a detour.”

Then they proceeded down another length of corridor as Dr. Sullivan consulted his Mobi, using it to guide their way out. Dominique tried to follow the turns they made, trying not to think about the corpse lying uncomfortably close to him.

Soon, they found themselves climbing out of a hidden manhole and onto the Rue Scribe. Their rides were waiting for them, and, disguising their hostage in Sullivan’s coat, they made their way over to the black van and police car, where medics and agents were waiting.

They too were a part of the organization they worked for, the one that devised this operation, that identified, captured, and contained various beings and creatures known in their line of work as “Phenomena”. This organization was called the Earthwide Paranormal Investigation Committee, or E.P.I.C, and it was the best-kept secret humanity ever made.

With their subject loaded into the back of the van, Sullivan turned to Dominique. His understudy was shivering as he held the collapsed boat, looking tired and dazed, as if trying to decide if any of this was real. Sullivan pulled his hand through his graying hair, remembering vaguely what the feeling was like.

 _They’re going to need to work on this one,_ he thought.

“You can ride in the car,” he said. “Good work today.” Dominique nodded and headed toward the police car, while Sullivan took the passenger seat of the van.

At about this time, the police officers in the Opéra Garnier were thanking the staff and bidding them a goodnight, ready to leave and regroup with Sullivan and his squad further down the road. Sullivan gazed out his window at the opera house as the van pulled off the pavement and onto the road.

He watched it until it fell out of view, and only then did he finally relax.

“I’m going to take a light doze, okay?” he said to the driver in French. “Wake me if anything happens.” The driver nodded and Dr. Sullivan leaned back in his chair.

In was in this way that they completed their capture of the Phantom of the Opera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the illustration: I've had this image of Erik in mind forever and knew that if I illustrated Phenomenon it would go in. But now I'm not exactly sure where to put it, so it may move depending.
> 
> Better 'n nothing, right?
> 
> Also, I've formatted the illustration to fit the display of my phone, but I realize it may not be the same for everyone. Just let me know if the picture is displaying too large for you.


	3. The Events that Followed

“Sweetie, I told you not to call me when I’m on the job.”

“Yes, dad, I know, but did you get the gig?” It was code.

“Yes, honey, I got the gig.”

“ _Yes!_ I _knew_ it! What does your boss look like?”

“Exactly what you’d expect,” Dr. Sullivan glanced toward the door he stood not too far from. “Listen, pumpkin, I’ve got to go. I have…a meeting with the boss and I can’t delay.”

“Alrighty dad. When are you coming home?”

“It may not be for a while.” Silence. “I’m sorry, Meg.”

“…I understand,” came the dejected response.

“I promise I’ll take you somewhere nice as soon as I get home. We’ll spend each day together.”

“Sure, dad.”

“Don’t give Auntie any trouble now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you soon. I love you Megan.”

“I love you too, dad.”

Dr. Sullivan hung up.

He turned toward the two agents beside him and nodded. Together they walked through the door into the interrogation room, staged to look exactly like a 1900’s parlor room, but without windows and with modern electric lighting. Two velvet chairs and a small table sat before them. One of the chairs was already occupied. The agents stood by the door as Dr. Sullivan sat in the empty seat directly across from the gruesome, bone-thin man who waited for him.

The Phantom stared at Richard Sullivan. He was wearing the plain clothes they had given him and his face was hidden behind a cheap white mask. His eyes, which reportedly shown gold in the darkness, were washed out in the light, so all Sullivan could see were two black holes in the mask where eyes should be.

Sullivan took a deep breath, preparing his carefully selected words.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” he said to the Phantom, in French.

The Phantom said nothing.

“I assume,” Sullivan continued, “that you think I’m here to interrogate you. But I’m not. I’m here to answer any questions you have, all of which I will answer truthfully, only if you answer me one in return: What is your name?” Sullivan already knew the answer, but it was part of protocol. If their captive suffered from amnesia they had to know. The Phantom said nothing for a moment.

“I am called Erik,” he eventually said, in flawless British-English. The hairs on the back of Sullivan’s neck stood on end at the sound of his voice. It was clear, almost bell-like in tonality, warm in some places, cool in others—and yet venomous in its tone. It was a tool and Erik knew how to use it. Sullivan remained composed.

“Do you not prefer to speak French, Erik?” he asked, switching over to English.

“You said one question,” Erik stated, the melodious fingers of his voice running down Sullivan’s spine again. “That was your agreement, and you already broke it…but I will answer anyway to appeal to you…It’s because I despise your American accent.”

“Fair enough,” Sullivan said. “Now, for your questions. Ask me anything you’d like to know.” Erik lapsed into silence. Dr. Sullivan waited, but the Phantom made no apparent move to speak. It was impossible discern the expression behind his mask, and his body language proved no more readable.

The silence continued.

“Erik?”

“Why do you assume I’ll ask anything other than what you’d expect?” The words shot through Sullivan’s system like poison. He must’ve had some kind of physical reaction, for Erik’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“I just wanted to give you the courtesy of being able to ask for yourself—”

“Just like you had the courtesy to give me this mask?” Dr. Sullivan stared at Erik’s covered face. They had put it on the Phantom when he was unconscious, for it had immediately become apparent that nothing would progress smoothly without one.

Dr. Sullivan had guessed Erik would resent it. Guessed correctly.

“If you wish to remove it,” he said, “you may.” Erik brought his cadaverous hands up to the mask, but paused.

“You tense,” he said to the Doctor.

“You know the reason why,” Sullivan replied. “But I’d rather humor you at my expense than be inhospitable.” Erik slowly put his hands down.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll ask the questions you wish to hear. Who are you? Where am I? Why have you brought me here? What do you plan to do with me?…I hope you understand that if I’m to be your prisoner, I won’t remain here for very long. However…if there’s anything I wish to know, most of all, it’s this…” He extended one cadaverous hand and pointed a clawed finger at Sullivan’s wrist. “What is _that?_ ” The Phantom was pointing at Dr. Sullivan’s Mobi, which peaked out of the cuff of his suit jacket. Dr. Sullivan let out a sigh.

“This,” he said, pulling his sleeve up, “is a Mobi, a small computer, or _un ordinateur_ , as you’ll come to best understand it.”

“ _L’ordinateur_ …” Erik repeated.

“At its most basic, it’s a machine that can make rapid calculations. At its most elaborate—” He turned on the display, causing a collection of holographic images to light up midair. Erik recoiled in shock. “—it’s a device that can do anything you can imagine, if programmed right.”

“It’s magic!” the Phantom exclaimed. “Not magic,” Sullivan said, turning off the display. The holographs vanished. “Science. And it’ll only make sense to you once I answer you first questions, the ones you say I expect you to ask.” He pulled down his sleeve and folded his hands upon the table. Erik waited patiently in silence.

“My name is Doctor Richard Sullivan,” the Doctor began, “and I work for an organization called the Earthwide Paranormal Investigation Committee. We specialize in analyzing and containing any and all supernatural or cryptid phenomenon, specifically those that would potentially interfere with and disrupt society. We were founded in 1952 as a secret organization by the United Nations, and have been operating covertly for more than fifty years since.”

Erik remained completely stoic.

“Yes, Erik, we’re in the 21st century. You have been asleep for more than a hundred years.” The Phantom placed his hands on the small table and leaned forward.

“ _Go on._ ” The command was delivered deeply, the words driving down the spines of all who were in the room, causing hair to stand on end. Sullivan anticipated it though.

“You are what we refer to as a Class-A Phenomenon,” he said. “A unique occurrence that springs out of urban legend. Cases like yours remain mired in rumor until—to be frank—they’re proven otherwise. When this happens, it creates a risk of a renaissance—a rebirth, which we call neo-genesis. We don’t know how or why it happens, but we do know how to track it before it does and deal with the Phenomenon if it happens.”

“And how exactly do you ‘deal’ with these supposed ‘phenomena’?”

“Well, that would depend on their disposition, wouldn’t it?” the doctor answered. “A lot of reported cases are mundane beings like house ghosts or cryptids, the likes of which are mostly harmless and would like to be left alone. As for the ones that are violent? Well…that you can probably guess.” Sullivan got the distinct feeling Erik was scanning his features, searching for something.

“If it wasn’t for you strange wristwatch, Monsieur Sullivan, I wouldn’t hesitate to call you a liar and a madman…I’m still tempted.”

“Mad it would seem,” said the Doctor. “But it only gets stranger. Tell me, Erik: How old are you?” If the Phantom was taken by surprise, he didn’t show it. “According to our historians, you were somewhere in your sixties, almost seventies, at the time of your death. However, the samples we’ve taken of your skin cells show an age of about thirty…Yes, we can measure that sort of thing now.”

“Thirty?” the Phantom questioned.

“Maybe a few years younger.”

“A child…” “We think this happens to certain Phenomenon as a result of the neo-genesis. It turns back your biological age close to the point where you stop growing and start ageing. It happens quite often with Class-A’s.” Erik inspected his long, bony fingers, contracting and extending them, as if to test the joints. Dr. Sullivan tried not looking at those yellowed hands and instead focused on the mask the Phantom wore.

“So…” Erik folded his hands upon the table. “Where do you go from here, Monsieur Sullivan?” It sounded like a challenge.

“From here, we keep an eye on you,” said Dr. Sullivan. “We’ll need to run some tests, all with your consent of course, but we hope you cooperate as they’re vital to our research. As for your living situation, you’ll stay here at E.P.I.C. headquarters until we’re satisfied with our data, and then we’ll go from there.”

“I suppose I’m not allowed to leave?”

“…No, Erik, you are not.” And here Dr. Sullivan got the distinct impression that Erik was smiling. He heard it in his voice, if anything, and it sent a chill down his spine.

“Oh, you’ll find that I will,” the Phantom said. “You’ll find you’ll _want_ me to leave, Monsieur. Your underlings, my good Monsieur, will be _begging_ for you to let Erik go, because Erik will do more than just make them uncomfortable.”

“Not if we can help it,” the doctor said. It was hard to remain as cordial as he had been. “You’re best off just cooperating with us and the process will move along quickly. Now, do you have any last questions before we proceed? We’re hoping to gain some vitals and run a few diagnostics today, if you’re willing. We’re also preparing your rooms for you.”

“I do have a question.”

“Go on.”

“Where is Christine Daaé?” Sullivan was silent for a moment, having dreaded this question. Or rather, dreaded answering it.

“You presume we know something about her.”

“ _Where is she?_ ” The Phantom’s eyes were dark but Sullivan felt their gaze burning into him. Erik would not be fooled.

“…She didn’t follow you, Erik. She lived her life.”

“As did I.”

“But you were the subject of legend, not her,” Sullivan said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know why you’re here anymore than you are…and why it’s just you and no one else.” Erik remained silent for a moment and Sullivan held his breath, not knowing what he should expect. But the Phantom posed another question:

“Will my rooms be as erroneously decorated as this parlor room you’ve constructed?” Sullivan frowned.

“They will be modern rooms, if you’re prepared for that.”

“I would much rather adapt to your time than see you poorly attempt to recreate mine.” His voice was acidic.

“To be fair, we weren’t going for authenticity, Erik,” said Sullivan. “We were trying to make you comfortable.”

“And by extension, yourselves,” the Phantom said. “Ah, I see how it is.”

Richard Sullivan had had enough. He placed his hands on the table and stood from his chair.

“I’m going to make preparations for your physical,” he said. “Is there anything you need me to get for you in the mean time? Some food? Water? The wait shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

“I need nothing,” Erik replied.

“Then I’ll take my leave. Thank you for your cooperation…Erik.” He turned to go, only to be stopped by the sound of the Phantom’s supernatural voice.

“Oh Monsieur.” Sullivan turned around. “I must state that this mask you provided for me is _frightfully itchy_. I’m sure I can put up with it agreeably in the right environments, but should I find myself faced with _inhospitality_ , I just may find the itch rightfully unbearable.” And here he lifted the mask ever so slightly to scratch at a supposed itch on his lower cheek. Dr. Sullivan flinched and his agents shuttered.

“Oh, you don’t like that?” Erik questioned, pulling his mask back into place. “Well then, Monsieur Richard Sullivan, it might be in your best interest to make my stay a pleasant one, yes?”

“I would strive for no less,” the doctor coolly replied. Erik nodded.

“I’m so pleased we see the matter eye-to-eye.” Dr. Sullivan and his agents left the room, door automatically locking behind them. He made sure they gained considerable distance from the room before he stopped in his tracks and leaned against the wall, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Silver?” He looked up at the agent beside him. Her face was white. He didn’t know it, but his own face was equally as wan.

“He’s horrible,” Sullivan replied. “I’ve never…I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

It was utterly imperative that they keep track of the Phantom. Only God knew what he could be capable of.

* * *

Richard Sullivan’s footsteps faded from behind the metal door, and he was left alone.

Immediately, the panic set in.

Where? How? What? When?

And _why???_

He stood, chair scraping, and marched over to the door, unable to ignore the way his strange clothing felt or how the material of his mask seemed to cling slightly to his flesh. It all felt foreign and undignified. Surely they were mocking him.

The door was solid, made of some kind of odd metal and had no apparent lock on the handle. Erik had heard the _click_ of the bolt sure enough, but tried the handle anyway. In vain.

So…he _was_ their prisoner after all.

With questions buzzing in his head with no answers to be found, he turned and stared at the room, at its blinding electric lights, its failed impersonation of a decent parlor, its furniture that seemed authentic but bizarrely old. _Old!_ A hundred years old, at least! His breath quickened and he closed his eyes.

Oh yes, this was Hell. A mad, unimaginable, insane sort of Hell.

…But then, he supposed, if this was truly Hell, then it was not something he was wholly unaccustomed to.

He opened his eyes and felt himself relax, nearly chuckling at his sudden acceptance of things as they were. Shouldn’t he be absolutely tormented at the thought of living again? Oh yes, it _did_ torment him—as much as the thought of Christine lying dead and buried beneath the ground did. No longer a corpse would she be. Just dust beneath a tombstone that could no longer be read…

He forced that thought out of mind, instead replacing it with the not unreasonable conclusion that he was, after all, an absurdist.

“This world isn’t all that different now, isn’t it, _Madame la Chaise?_ ” he said aloud, looking at the chair Sullivan previously occupied.

“Oh no, Erik!” replied the chair from across the room, its voice procuring from the seat cushion as if it were truly speaking. “It’s not so different at all, I can assure you!” Erik chuckled darkly. He still had his talents, to be sure!

“Ah! Call me a fool then, my poor old chair, because I hardly recognize anything that surrounds me!”

“Oh, Erik, there is only one fool here!” said the lights above. “And it’s not you! Not at all! The real fool is Monsieur Richard Sullivan, who thinks he can keep you locked up in this badly-disguised prison cell!”

“Is that so, my brilliant companions?” Erik asked them.

“Why yes!” said the door. “I may be made of metal, Erik, but men are still as soft and pliable as ever! What would they do if you snuck into their thoughts, riddled their ears with all the matter of nightmares and horrors? How would they react when they can’t find the source of the noise or make it go away?”

“A fine point you make, mysterious door!”

“And Erik, don’t forget us!” This voice came directly from Erik’s hands. “ ‘Tis us! These clever, corpse-like hands of yours, your faithful companions, tool of tools! Oh how we long for our old friend the catgut! Oh how we long to throw it around the head of Monsieur Sullivan and end his life with a mere turn of the wrist! Even the smallest rope would do, Erik! Oh, Erik! If only we could do it on our own!”

“Don’t fear my little hands,” Erik replied, staring at his slender, withered fingers. “Monsieur is not bright. Monsieur will soon lie dead and Erik will go free! It will only be a little time—just a little—and he will be no more!”

“We look forward to the day, Erik! Oh how we look forward to it!”

And at this, Erik let forth a shrill, crazed sort of laugh, one crashed around the room and clawed at the door and the false parlor draperies like frenzied animals. He did not know if anyone outside could hear him, but at that moment he did not particularly care.

The tiny camera situated in the corner of the ceiling, however, said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have this part or the next really fleshed out in my mind, but looking at my history when it comes to sharing work I'm not wholly and completely satisfied with, I figure it's just best to post up what I've got.
> 
> Mind that there are probably a few grammatical mistakes in this one. I'll try to catch them as I feverishly skim over this with unquelled but ultimately trivial dissatisfaction.


	4. Don't Believe His Lies

A week later, Dr. Sullivan was still alive.

Oh yes, he was very much annoyed, rather sleep-deprived, and perhaps a tad more paranoid than he normally was, but undeniably alive. Though he had to admit that Erik made it a downright chore for him to stay that way. First, he had tried to construct a Punjab noose out of his bedsheets, only to be caught on camera and thwarted, much to Erik’s rage. Then, perhaps because he realized he didn’t have the luxury of secrecy, he spontaneously assaulted Dr. Sullivan during one of their meetings, locking his arm around his neck and squeezing until Sullivan managed to throw him off.

The rest of the week consisted of Erik taking the nastiest form of revenge. He became cheerful, cooperating with all that was asked of him and replying to all questions with a singsong voice…and yet, there were the whispers, those little voices that would sit right in one’s ear, feeding scathing remarks into it—humiliating, personal, terrifying remarks. This was Erik’s ventriloquism, and it was unlike anything Sullivan ever heard of before. If it weren’t for the fact the whispers were muffled slightly by the mask, he would begin to think he was going insane.

He almost believed he was, despite all reason.

One thing served to comfort him: At that moment, he sat on a chair before a closed, lock door, and beyond that door was the Phantom, sitting with perhaps the most pleasant man Dr. Sullivan knew in the Committee…and also perhaps the most pleasant man in the field of Psychology, if he were to take a guess. If there was a man who could handle the incorrigible Opera Ghost, it was Dr. Sebastien Fournier, Ph.D.

So when that stout little Canadian came running out of the room, forehead wet with sweat and face pale and sallow as if he had, on the spot, dropped sixty pounds, Dr. Sullivan was washed with a wave of crushing, blistering defeat.

“He’s a madman!” Dr. Fournier said in English. “I already knew that, but _hell_ he’s a madman!”

“What did he do, Dr. Fournier?” Sullivan asked, dreading the answer. When was the last time he got a decent night’s sleep?

“He began to whisper things to me about Daryl,” said Fournier. “The devil! How did the bastard know about him?” Daryl Snipes was Fournier’s late partner, who met his tragic fate thirteen years ago in a ski accident in Whistler. Fournier talked of him often and not in an uncheerful way, but the expression the psychologist’s face at the moment was one of deep hurt.

“Erik has a talent for listening,” Dr. Sullivan said.

“This is a man who can selectively throw his voice into people’s ears!” the psychologist retorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he could throw his ears in just the same way! And that _voice!_ He could command Heaven and Hell with a voice like that. I tell you, that book doesn’t lie.” Dr. Sullivan rubbed his temples, exhausted. Not that he hadn’t been taxed by Phenomenon before, but Erik was a particularly aggressive case.

“Listen, Silver,” the psychologist said. “I have a hunch about Erik, but I don’t think we’re ever going to get anywhere like this.” Dr. Sullivan looked up.

“Like what?”

“Keeping Erik locked away here at headquarters,” Fournier said. “You can give him every possible luxury under the sun but it’s not going to change the fact he wants out. And until that happens I don’t think he’s going to cooperate.”

“You know we can’t do that, Sebastien,” said Sullivan, sighing deeply. But the psychologist grew stern, which was no small deal coming from him.

“Silver, with all due respect, I speak as a psychologist, not a guessworking plebian,” he said. “If our only goal was to contain these blasted Phenomena then all we’d have to do is kill them. But it’s not. We need them to cooperate if we’re ever going to figure out how the hell this is all happening, and whether you like it or not, a lot of them are people too. If Erik is going to help us then we’re going to have to be compassionate.” He paused for a moment to let Sullivan consider. “And…seeing what he can do now…I can’t imagine what he’s going to be capable of in the future. I wouldn’t want him as my enemy when that time comes.”

 “Alright, I get your point,” Dr. Sullivan said. “It’s just…” Dr. Fournier sighed.

“I know,” he said. “But if this were easy then E.P.I.C would have no shortage of idiots to hire.”

“Well then, what’s your proposal?”

Dr. Fournier told him, and Sullivan did not like it.

“We’re going to have to get that second part approved…but I don’t suppose it’ll hurt to go through with the first half.”

“Given the other agents don’t object,” suggested Dr. Fournier. Sullivan chuckled darkly.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not asking them for permission, now isn’t it?”

A few moments later, they entered Erik’s rooms, which they had furnished, quite admirably, with as many forms of enrichment and beautification as they could get their hands on within the span of the week. The one room they stood in had been transformed into a serviceable study, with a sofa, armchairs, rug, amply-filled bookshelves, and a writer’s desk in one corner. Nondescript paintings hung from the otherwise bare walls. There was even a heater which looked and played the part of a fireplace, situated in front of the sofa and armchairs like an amicable hearth. If one were to throw their eyes out of focus enough, the room would seem rightfully cheery, even charming. Sullivan had to commend itself.

 _Ah, look at you, stepping into the lion’s den you are. Do you wish to be devoured?_ It took Sullivan a moment to realize the thoughts were not his own, but were in fact whispers, coming from a voice sitting right next to his left ear. He looked at the Phantom, who sat at ease upon one armchair with a book in hand, looking—Sullivan had to admit—far better to the eyes than in previous days. They had provided him with a proper suit, which Erik wore despite admonishing its cut, and a wig to hide his wispy hair and gnarled cranium. But perhaps the largest improvement came in the form of his new mask. They had fashioned it from scans they took of Erik’s face and cast it of the finest quality plastic possible, and unlike the first one, its features corresponded to Erik’s facial structure, making it wholly unique. It was still white, and it still covered his face fully, but at least it wasn’t quite so…blank.

“Erik,” Sullivan said. The Phantom looked at them. They could not see any eyes beyond the white mask, just shadows, and all at once the mask upon his face looked just as blank and unknowable as the other one did.

Sullivan tried to tell himself that all masks had that effect.

“I do not believe I called upon you, messieurs,” Erik said. “The knock was well appreciated, but I would have dismissed you, had you not already entered.” His voice was positively light, as if he was but a friendly neighbor greeting unexpected visitors.

_Oh, but don’t look so nervous now!_

“Erik, we have come to make a deal with you, if you’ll let us.”

“But of course, messieurs. Anything. Please take a seat.” He gestured at the sofa with practiced grace—the grace of a magician’s misdirection.

_One small miscalculation, and you could die from strangulation. Where would that leave your poor, sweet Megan?_

Sullivan flinched, and Erik smiled. Sullivan didn’t even have to see his face to know. He nevertheless stopped himself from imagining such a rictus. He and Dr. Fournier both sat, with Sullivan the closest to Erik.

“And now for your deal,” said the Phantom with that insufferable sing-song tone.

“Yes,” said Sullivan blandly. “Dr. Fournier and I were just talking…as I’m sure you’re aware. We’ve come to a decision that there’s no way we can possibly keep you locked up here in headquarters. It’s not good for you, nor I, nor any other agent in this facility.”

 _Ah, so you_ do _wish to die, you blathering old fool!_

The Phantom slowly closed his book and set it aside.

“We can do one of two things, Erik. The first, we can let you walk out of this room and leave this building, and you will never have to see myself nor any other agent ever again. But if you did so, I guarantee you will not know where to go or what to do, and you may end up perishing out there. A lot has changed since your time. You will not find a world anything like your own.”

_Erik will be the one to die? Are you so sure?_

“Alternatively—”

 _What will Megan think when she receives news of_ your _death?_

“Alternatively, we can—”

_Died at the hand of a corpse, she’ll see._

Dr. Sullivan took a sharp, ragged breath, making Erik flinch. The voices fell silent. Richard Sullivan took a sidelong glance at Dr. Fournier. The man was white with the whispers of his own hell.

“Erik, why do you hate me so much?” Sullivan asked. The Phantom curled his fingers into the palm of his hands. Uncurled them.

“You are assuming it’s personal,” he smoothly replied.

“Is it?”

The Phantom said nothing.

“Why is it you wish to kill me, then?”

Again, no response. Sullivan waited.

“ _You’ve seen me_.” The words were cold and grave and played Sullivan’s spine with undead fingers.

“I’ve…yes. I’ve seen you.”

“Anyone who sees me should surely die.”

“Even if they weren’t offended?”

Erik held perfectly still.

“Weren’t offended?”

“Frightened, yes. Horrified, maybe. But insulted? No. I don’t feel personally offended by what I saw.” Erik leaned forward, resting his arms upon his knees. Dr. Fournier seemed to relax slightly, which eased Sullivan.

“What was the second thing you wanted to tell me?” Erik asked. His tone had changed.

“It was the alternative—an agreement,” Sullivan replied. “We will let you come and go as you please, protect you by any means necessary, and give you anything you want that’s in our power to grant. But in return, you must agree to be our ally. We need your help, Erik. We don’t know what causes Phenomenon and we don’t know what affect they have on this world. If you help us, we’ll help you, but it not—” He stood up and walked over to the door, opening it. He stood aside as he held the door agape. “—then consider these our parting words.” Erik stared at the opened door, then took a glance at Dr. Fournier, who glanced away.

And then he bolted, armchair shuttering backwards on its legs, Erik a blur streaking across the carpeted room, and all at once he was gone but for his footsteps, the sound of them ricocheting madly off the walls.

Dr. Sullivan activated his Mobi.

“Veda,” he said. “Inform all agents that Phenomenon S-05 is currently roaming free in the facility. Tell them to act only in cases of self-defense but otherwise they must let him go.” Dr. Fournier approached him as he finished his report.

“That…didn’t go as I was hoping,” he said.

“Nonsense. It’s going just as I planned,” Sullivan replied. Fournier wasn’t exactly sure if he was being facetious or not. But he was back on his Mobi: “Juniper, are you by the pads? Good. There’s someone we need to give a demonstration to…”

* * *

 They led Erik back inside the complex, sat him down in one of the communal kitchens, made coffee of Dr. Fournier’s design. The Phantom seemed perfectly calm as Sullivan explained “satellite arrays” and “automobiles” and “freeways” and “helicopters”, but his trembling hands betrayed him.

Sullivan could imagine what happened. Erik had climbed the floors of the base and left the building, a building that looked like a simple research facility at the base of the Alps, out in the middle of nowhere. A single freeway wandered through the landscape of low green shrub, rock and grass, with a filament of road connecting it to the facility. And then there were the satellite dishes, which stood a ways away from the building but still ostensibly part of the complex. And then there was the helicopter that Juniper stared at Sullivan’s request.

Agent Silver collected the stunned Erik as she flew above them.

Unprompted, Fournier gave Erik a cup of coffee, but the Phantom didn’t touch it, and nobody expected him to. Sullivan sat adjacent from the Phantom, looking at the masked man over the rim of his own cup.

“I warned you,” he said.

“That helicopter. You told it to launch,” Erik replied.

“I did.”

“You were never going to let me go, were you?”

“If you still want to leave, no one will stop you.” Erik traced the rim of his cup with one finger. Then his shoulders began to shake. At first, neither Sullivan nor Fournier knew what to think of this, until his shaking was joined by dark, nervous laughter.

“I really _am_ alive, aren’t I?” Erik said, his voice confounded with bewilderment. “You two _are_ real, and all this, _this_ …this is _all_ real! This _is_ the future! Look at all these futuristic devices!…Coffee, yes, brewed in _that_ machine? And, tell me, gentlemen, what is that over there?”

“A microwave oven,” Sullivan replied.

“Ah, to know what “micro-wave” even implies! But look, it tells the time! In _numbers!_ ” Richard Sullivan leaned toward Dr. Fournier.

“Is he alright?” he asked.

“Shocked,” the psychologist replied.

“Ask _me_ how I feel, Monsieur Sullivan!” Erik chided. “Do you believe Erik is slow?”

“On the contrary,” Sullivan replied, “I think your mind’s moving too fast for its own good.” Erik leaned over his cup of coffee, and for a moment, Dr. Sullivan thought he could see a glint of gold within the dark sockets of Erik’s eyes.

“…I have seen the other side of this planet and bided with the devils of the East,” the Phantom said. “I’ve partaken in their customs…Entertained them with material to weave nightmares with. I’ve seen their magic and their rituals…their djinn, their heathen gods…And yet nothing in Mazandaran was stranger than what I can see in this room alone. I must concede you were right, Monsieur Sullivan. This world is foreign. This time is otherworldly. And…I need to understand it.”

“So you agree to our terms?” Sullivan asked.

The Phantom said nothing. He slowly circled the rim of his coffee cup once again with one, bony finger, appearing pensive.

“…Yes,” he said. Dr. Sullivan stood and held out his hand.

“Then it’s agreed,” he said. Erik stood as well.

“Yes, monsieur. We have a deal.”

Sullivan felt a shudder pass through him as Erik’s cold, bony hand slid into his own, grasping his fingers tightly with an unexpectedly powerful grip, and at that moment he knew that his fears and trepidations regarding the Phantom were not about to be put to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally didn't proof-read, so I'll catch as I go. This part of the story's pretty boring so I'm having a hard time resisting the temptation to cheat with it. Illustrations will likely come at a later date because I'm experiencing some health-issues related to my shoulder...although to be honest this chapter probably won't have any.
> 
> Also, let me know if something Erik says sounds BLATANTLY American.


	5. The Shadow Upon the Wall

“Erik…Erik?…”

Someone was calling for him. He turned around, looking for the source of the voice, but saw no one.

“Erik…”

He took a step in one direction, but looked in another.

“…Christine?” he questioned.

“ _Erik!_ ”

He jolted awake, finding himself staring up at the ceiling from his bed. His rooms were dark. The only light within them came from a crack beneath the door, and from the digital alarm clock that sat on his bedside table, his mask beside it. The numbers read a few minutes past one in the morning. Frowning, Erik turned over to go back to sleep, but wakefulness had already seized him, and he lay there for a moment thinking of Christine and how she contrived to torture him from beyond the grave.

It only aggravated his restlessness.

He threw off his covers and swung himself out of bed, glancing about his room. He could see in the dark what normal men could not. It was almost as clear as day to him with what little light there was. And yet, he didn’t have to see to know the nature of his rooms, of the complex itself—that they were his prison.

One month had passed since he woke up drifting in the murky waters of the Opera House foundation. One month of captivity, despite what they wanted him to believe. The man Richard Sullivan had run off on some other mission—or so Erik was told—leaving him with only the psychologist for any real company. And all the disgusting man cared about was finding the right pills for Erik to swallow.

He began to pace. Admittedly, the E.P.I.C. agents had granted every one of his requests, giving him everything he wanted and telling him anything he wanted to know. They even gave him his own personal computer, _un ordinateur_ , with access to the Internet. Erik spent hours and hours upon it, reading about wars, revolutions, heavier-than-air travel, motion pictures, cellular phones, the space age, and much more. He saw the years flow across the screen, saw the transitioning of ages with every click. Saw women in pantaloons…or nothing.

At first he turned away from these women in horror. And then he looked.

And looked.

And looked.

And then, quite suddenly, he decided that none of them were beautiful.

He soon realized what a powerful tool a computer could be. Computers were what ran E.P.I.C.’s facility. They were what agents used to monitor and communicate, to track and organize. Computers stored and transferred information. They could also be hacked.

Erik glanced at his little notebook laptop now, considering turning it on and drowning himself once again in endless knowledge, distractions, and blessed anonymity. In any normal circumstance he might have, but at that moment he balked at the notion. It was but a mere window to the outside world, not a door. He wanted a door, ideally a door only he knew about, that only he could pass through, invisible to all but himself. Those were the kind of doors he loved.

What it possible to have such a door in a world so wildly interconnected?

Erik turned away from his computer and desk and found himself staring at a wall. It was swathed in dark shadows, where no light from either the clock or door fell upon it. He stared at it. Shadows like these were hard to come by in this world of florescent lights. The Opera Populaire had been full of them. Oh, the way they danced in the flickering lamplight! How they masterfully played a part in his illusions, hiding him, confusing reality. They were the home of the imagination’s most dreadful beasts! Erik chuckled, knowing how he made himself out to be one— _le Fantôme!_

Perhaps it was out of this fondness for darkened spaces that made Erik reach out and touch the wall.

In a blink of an eye he flew to the ceiling and dropped straight upon the floor.

He gasped, his body swathed in pain, his mind bewildered. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself before glancing back to the wall, spotting his nightclothes lying in a pile where he had been previously standing.

The intercom on the wall blinked. Erik staggered over to it and pressed the “talk” button.

“What?” he barked, keeping his voice miraculously level, even bored-sounding, though he was shaking all over.

“Erik, is everything alright in there? Someone said they heard a crash from your room.” Ah, who was it talking? Cobalt, that was it. What was with these agents and their silly names?

“It was nothing,” Erik replied. “I simply fell out of bed. It’s nothing for you to worry yourselves over.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! I’m a man prone to night terrors—thrashings, ravings, yes, even falling out of bed! I don’t need agents like you breathing down my neck with everything I do, so if you hear it again, don’t bother calling. Do I make myself clear, monsieur?”

“Yes sir…”

“Good. And goodnight!”

Erik released the intercom button. His hand flew to his heart and he took another deep breath to calm himself. A shiver ran through his body, and all at once he was grateful there were no cameras in his rooms. Quickly, he went back to the wall, dressed himself in his abandoned nightclothes, and sat on the bed, staring back at the shadow.

What did he just do?

He had moved through the darkness, defied something about the physical world. Somehow, his body had disappeared. This wasn’t 21st century trickery, he knew. These kinds of capabilities only existed in fiction—usually comic books.

It made just about a much sense as his current existence did.

The Phantom stepped away from the bed, extended his hand to the wall once more. His fingers met with the cool plaster and nothing else happened.

But of course! He had to _want_ to disappear, didn’t he? Erik took a breath and recalled the feeling of gliding through the Opera’s cellars, hidden and unknown, and immediately he melded with the shadow once more.

How…fascinating! His senses remained localized, but yet he could feel all edges of the shadow, where it started and where if ended. With some concentration, he found out he could cast his “presence” to one place or another with instant results, but couldn’t reach it past a certain point at the shadow’s edge, where it got brighter from the light of the clock. Alas, he could not be his own independent shadow.

He focused himself back upon the wall that originally started it all, positioning himself about man-height, and carefully drew himself back into solid form, stepping away. He stood there, contemplating, before once again putting his nightclothes back on and trying again.

With some practice, Erik discovered he could expand the area of influence to the things he was wearing, and was very glad to find that whatever went in the shadows with him came out. He practiced “throwing” himself, going wherever the darkness went—below the bed, under the desk, up and down and around the walls, ceiling, and floor, spreading himself out to fit through small spaces, much like a puddle, in a way.

Erik stepped away from the wall one more time, clothes on and all his arms and legs attached. He was grinning. He had found his door, and it would lead him to freedom.

* * *

 Erik crossed the country of France within the span of a minute.

With the exception of a few pockets of light, the darkness of the moonless night shrouded the land completely, giving Erik an astoundingly massive shadow to move through. He chuckled darkly from behind his mask. Walking out of the complex had been the difficult part. Travelling all the way to Paris had been easy!

Yes, Paris! All there before him! He had imagined it would be populated by the skyscrapers and high-rises he saw on the internet, but some divine line seemed to separate those things from the _arrondissements_ —from the districts of Paris proper. If it weren’t for the blinding street-lamps, the automobiles, and modern store-fronts, it could have been the Paris he knew from his own time.

Erik strolled along, keeping to the small, darkened streets, but boldly walking down the quieter large ones when he sure no eyes or cameras were watching. He had just finished…thrifting. Yes, thrifting was a good word. He had snuck into a darkened store and taken a long, black trenchcoat, with deep pockets and large lapels he could pop up around his face to hide his mask more. It was nice. It was expensive. And now it was his.

He flowed into a shadow and snaked around a building, walking out the other side like—who was that again?—ah, David Copperfield. He was not far from the Opéra now. Had he not gone touring he would’ve been there by now.

The Phantom turned a corner onto the Rue Scribe and couldn’t help but inhale sharply.

There it was, the Opéra, standing before him just as he remembered it. If not for the bright electric lights it looked nearly identical. He sank backwards into a shadow while contemplating how to cross the brightly-lit street. There was no doubt the place was full of cameras.

He spotted a storm drain nearby, and immediately knew.

The darkness was unpenetrated, and his movement rapid. Erik felt exhilarated by the endless possibilities these long tunnels of blackness provided, despite the fact that, yes, it was the sewer. With them and the catacombs, he could go almost anywhere he desired! He made a mental note of this as he headed for the Opera House.

The sewers led to the underwater cavern, to that area beneath the Opera House eternally known as the lake. Quickly, Erik flew down the walls of the low, arched hallways, and came to the end of one in particular. It ended in a rectangular, door-sized inset in the stone wall, and Erik’s shadow-form felt the wall was entirely sealed.

No matter. He would come back for his home on the lake later. What mattered now was what lay above.

Erik swept past the lake, through the grate that sealed it from the floor above, flew down darkened passageways, and climbed invisibly up through the sub-stage levels, avoiding the occasional lit objects in the otherwise blackened rooms.

He reached the final door, the door that led to the stage, and once returning to his solid form, he slowly, gently, opened it.

The stage and auditorium were dimly-lit and dead-silent. Erik gasped as he looked above him, at the swath of technology that had been installed in place of the stage equipment he knew. He was slowly growing used to such technology, but seeing it here, in the Opera Populaire…

Erik stepped away from the door, letting it shut gently behind him. Slowly he walked to the front of the stage, looking out upon the auditorium. It was as it always had been. Yes, he supposed most of the fabric had been replaced, and the beautiful structures were starting to show signs of wear, but all in all, it was just as he reme—

Erik scowled horribly from behind his mask when he saw the chandelier, or rather, the mural that surrounded it. What a _mural!_ Blues, reds, yellows, and greens were smeared across the ceiling where portraits of the esteemed maestros once were! Who painted such childish scribbles!?

“I should have them hanged,” Erik concluded softly to himself. He briskly made his way stage-left to a darkened corner, assuming shadow-form and slithering up into _his box._

Box Five on the Grand Tier.

It certainly wasn’t the best view, but that was never why Erik chose it. It had to do with the hollowed pillar, a secret passage of his own design, which provided his means of coming and going. It couldn’t be implemented as effectively elsewhere, and Erik had valued his secrecy far, far more than an ideal view.

There were only two chairs in Box Five. He sat in one, contemplating why there wasn’t the usual six. Surely the managers would’ve restored this box to its proper function after his death. Perhaps they would add the chairs back in before the next showing…though he couldn’t imagine why they would ever remove them to begin with.

He made his way out into the hallway, checking for cameras, but found none. It was…strange, seeing the hallway lit with its electric lights, even though only a few were on. In his time, lights were used to highlight the beautiful, which allowed darkened spaces to remain unornamented. The hall was nice but not luxurious. Only parts of it were meant to be lit.

Erik saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and jumped.

He realized, feeling foolish, that it was only himself, reflected in the mirror that segregated the velvet-covered doorways of the stairwell. He grimaced at his own masked reflection, but looked on anyway, since this was his first time viewing himself in over a hundred years.

His reflection glared back from behind his mask, his body pole-thin and hunched over like a skeletal crane. He was huddled in his coat, which…did not look all that bad on him, actually. Rather than accentuate its skinniness, it hid it, even making his frame look passably human at certain angles. Erik relaxed, thinking perhaps modern clothes weren’t all that bad, if generally tasteless.

Something else caught his eye, though, and he was immediately in front of Box Five’s door, staring at a golden plaque below the number, a plaque he traced with his finger as his mind registered the copperplate writing:

LOGE DU FANTÔME DE L'OPERA

A plaque? For him? For his box? He glanced above at where the number “5” was written. Flanking its left side was “6 Places” and on the right…on the right it read “Louée”.

 _Louée._ Rented.

Erik glanced down at the other boxes, noting many of them were blank on the right side of their numbers, though some were indeed rented. He thought of the two chairs inside the box, and suddenly had the strange notion that Box Five—his box, located on the far left of the auditorium, on the grand tier—was always rented. Always rented, and never occupied.

_How many people know about me?_

_“You are what we refer to as a Class-A Phenomenon,”_ Dr. Sullivan said in his mind. _“A unique occurrence that springs out of urban legend. Cases like yours remain mired in rumor until—to be frank—they’re proven otherwise.”_

Erik grinned to himself. So the situation had come full circle! Everyone knew the ghost, but not that he was a real, living man, just like before! Perhaps this time, they would never find out.

 _“Qui est là!?”_ The voice rang from down the curved hall and Erik immediately dove into Box Five, instincts driving him into hiding. They did not, however, prevent him from dashing to the hollowed pillar and attempting to open it—that was habit. The hidden door groaned and popped a few millimeters away from the wall, jammed. Erik slammed it back flush against the wall, cursing to himself before turning into a shadow, and not with a moment to spare.

The door to Box Five swung open and a guard walked in, carrying a lit flashlight. Erik moved away from the bright beam, watching as the man walked in with a shifty gaze, checking under furniture and down the small halls of the Box. He headed toward the balcony and look down at the auditorium below. Erik threw himself close to the guard’s face, seeing his expression of consternation, and was rather surprised when the man turned to look right at him.

He darted away just before the beam of light hit, leaving the guard staring at the empty wall with a confused look on his face. He fingered the radio at his belt, passing the light of the torch over the box once more, his expression grim. He stood there for a moment before shaking his head and leaving Box Five. Erik heard him talking into his radio as he went, telling the other guards to keep their eyes open for squatters.

Erik stepped out of the shadows, listening closely to hear if the guard was coming back. Satisfied he was alone, he turned to look at the pillar that denied his entry, unable to help feeling somewhat betrayed by it. Charles Garnier may have been the Opera’s architect, but Erik was a genius employed by him, turning the man’s vision into his own personal labyrinth of secret passages and hidden doors. The pillar had been one of his masterworks, invisible when closed and silent when opened. No one had ever seen the Phantom enter Box Five, and no one had ever seen him leave. This pillar had been why.

Erik brushed some dust away from the door, where it revealed its existence. He thought then of the state of his other mechanisms, imagining rusty hinges, counterweights broken, and springs frozen into place by decay. Nothing would work. Everything would be compromised by age.

Suddenly he was dying to inspect them all, to see the rotted cables and swollen doors with his own eyes.

As a shadow he swept back down belowstage, bolting through doors and lofty, darkened stone cellars that no regular man could navigate without a light. Despite knowing what state his mechanisms would be in, he was not consoled by what he saw, becoming restless at each secret door and hall, the next more decrepit than the last. He noticed as he continued that he was avoiding two specific passageways. The first led to the torture chamber. The second…to Christine’s drawing room. He shuddered as he thought of those two places, each bringing up painful memories, all of them reminding him of just how much he loathed himself. Erik didn’t like the reminder—didn’t need it.

Eventually, he found himself sitting upon pitch-black cellar steps, listening to the strange drips and moans and scuttles of the opera underground. None of it frightened him. On the contrary, it comforted him, being the only thing that hadn’t seemed to change through all these years. For a moment in this darkness, he imagined he could stand up, sweep through the cellars, ascend stairways and ladders and walk down hallways fixed between walls, climb upwards once more, until he reached Box Five, halfway in between the first act of the performance that was playing.

“A stool, madame,” he muttered to himself.

More drips in the distance. Erik felt his mask press against his face, the liner making it breathable and comfortable to wear. The feel of the strange fabric alone was enough to break his fantasy, reminding him this was not his era. The opera house was no longer his, subjugated as it was to the lights and cameras and guards within. He wasn’t even sure the cellars provided a safe haven. Someone could turn on a light switch and it would all be over.

Erik jumped from his spot as he realized he had lost track of time.

Quickly he flew through the cellars, down corridors, through the grates that led to the lake and into the sewage system, where he snaked along the pipes until he came to a storm drain, from which he looked out.

Night reigned in full. But how soon was dawn?

Erik sighed to himself. As much as he wanted to stay and assess the Opéra, he knew the risks of lingering. So, as a shadow, he slid once more through the alleys and streets of Paris, past the Seine, past the skyscrapers at the edge of the city, and on and on until he found himself in open country, where he could transpose himself as if teleporting. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he spotted the satellite arrays and knew he had found the E.P.I.C. complex. He slithered through the wired fence by means of a particularly thick shadow, and was soon strolling across the grounds as if he had just come back from a long, midnight walk around the place.

He used his key card to open the front door—he had been given one as part of the “come and go as you please” deal Sullivan had promised, although he was still forbidden from leaving the grounds. But now, he didn’t need permission. He had his own door.

He took a turn down the hall and almost walked right into Dr. Sullivan.

“Hello, Erik,” the Doctor said, his voice positively icy. “Did you have a nice stroll?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm taking this story in a weird direction, but bear with me. It's gonna get pretty cool.  
> Again, sorry about no illustrations. I want them, too.


	6. A Decision is Made

Richard Sullivan watched the Phantom from the viewing window, feeling the toll of stress take the form of a headache. It was as if he never left the complex, though he had been gone for a week visiting Megan. He felt like a traitor, leaving her aunt’s house in the dead of night with only a quick text to Heather saying it was an emergency. How did the poor woman explain it to Megan when she awoke? How _could_ she? One moment, Meg had her daddy back, and the next, he was gone.

Despite years of practice, years of keeping it in check, Dr. Sullivan found himself wearing his resentment on his face. He allowed it. If it weren’t for Erik, he wouldn’t have betrayed his daughter yet again.

Now the Phantom could do _this_ :

The room he looked into was blank and bright, and at one agent’s direction, the lights went off for half-a-second, shrouding the room in black. When they flickered back on, Erik was standing in a completely different place, looking as though he had teleported there. On, off. On, off. Erik transposed himself at each interval.

“See, Dominique?” he said to the agent trainee beside him. “This is why we keep track of them.” Dominique looked onward at the Phenomenon, his face an expression of bewilderment and fear. Dr. Sullivan sighed. He remembered the boy’s aficionado-like enthusiasm, back when he first joined. Dominique had been floored to find out that Phenomena sometimes developed what were essentially superpowers. But now, as the young man stood before the glass, seeing such powers demonstrated in the room beyond, he looked worried.

“He can go anywhere, as long as it’s dark,” he said.

“That’s what we’re trying to discern,” Sullivan replied. “We need to know the extent of these powers. Can he slip beneath a crack in the door? Can he travel through ventilation systems narrower than himself? How much can he carry on him while moving about in the dark? Where does his body even go? What’s the physics behind it?”

The lights were thrown back on and Erik was there, slamming his long, narrow palms hard against the window. Dominique staggered back with a shout, but Sullivan had anticipated this kind of misbehavior and wasn’t surprised. The lights were turned off and on again, but Erik didn’t move. Sullivan placed his hand on the shoulder of the agent controlling the switch for a moment, and the man took his hands away from the computer.

“Erik,” Sullivan said into the microphone from the control panel. “We need to continue these tests. Stick to the course, please.” Erik took one hand away from the wall and turned it over, his bony middle finger extending skyward.

“Where did he learn that?” Sullivan asked the agent beside him.

“I’m not sure,” was the reply. “Perhaps he got it from online.”

“I knew giving him a computer would be a mistake,” Sullivan lamented. He returned to the microphone. “I thought you were a better man than that, Erik. Now let’s continue.” Erik began to tap his finger against the glass rhythmically.

“Is that Morse code?” Dominique asked, still quite pale. Dr. Sullivan took a moment to listen, translating the taps in his mind:

I am no man.

He returned to the microphone.

“Whatever, Erik. Let’s just move on to the next test. We’re going to bring in a sealed crate that has a fifteen-centimeter hole in one side. You should be able to stand inside the crate just fine, but you’ll need to go through the hole. We’ll start with a five-second lapse.” A large door opened on one side of the room and a small forklift rolled in, carrying a crate large enough for at least two men to stand comfortably in. It had a door to one side, but it was locked. As promised, a hole fifteen centimeters in diameter was bored into one side.

Dr. Sullivan’s Mobi blinked. He angrily swiped the blinking light on his screen.

“What do you want Fournier?” he snapped. “I’m busy.”

“It’s the proposal, Silver,” Fournier’s voice said in his earpiece.

“Can’t you wait to tell me about that?”

“There’s more to it than that. You see, it’s Greenwich.” Sullivan watched as the forklift left the room beyond, leaving the crate dead in its center.

“What about him? Where are you?”

“Just outside the door.”

“I’m coming out.” Sullivan ended the call, bid a hasty “excuse me” to the agents in the observation room, and walked out the door into the hallways. Fournier was standing there.

“Okay, what’s all this about Greenwich? What about the proposal? I have an awakened Phenomenon in there and I can’t be interrupted in the middle of sensitive testing like this!”

“That’s fair, Silver, that’s totally, totally fair. But Greenwich is coming here.”

“Greenwich here? When?”

“At any moment! I’m sorry, we _just_ received the call so I’m about as up to speed as you are. He’s read our proposal for Erik and wanted to assess him for himself before approving it.” Sullivan growled.

“Didn’t we send him _all_ of Erik’s specs?”

“Yes…but it’s Greenwich. You know how he is.” Yes. Sullivan did.

“Let me know when—” Just then a cry came from the observation room, and Sullivan dodged back through the doors.

“What happened!?” he demanded. He’s gone for two fucking seconds and—

He noticed one of the camera feeds on the monitor showed static. Looking out into the room beyond, he saw Erik standing there, holding the camera that had formerly been inside the crate. It was a small thing, something they had jerry-rigged hastily in order to conduct the experiment. It had been easy for Erik to rip out.

Upon seeing Sullivan, the Phantom threw the camera with shocking strength at the observation window, creating a loud impact, camera fragments flying into the air.

“That’s it!” Sullivan cried. He grabbed the handgun from his belt, heading for the door to the blank room.

“Sullivan, no!” cried Fournier. “He’s just throwing a temper tantrum!”

“Temper tantrum my ass!” Sullivan replied. “He’s an international threat and he damn well knows it!” He barged into the room and took aim. Erik charged at him.

He fired. The bullet struck the wooden crate, sending splinters flying and leaving a hole punctured through the wall. Erik staggered as if the bullet hit him, though it had been far off.

“You see that, you damn ghost!?” Sullivan cried. “That could have been your fucking skull! Now if you want your brains spread all over the fucking floor, you’re going to do _exactly_ as I say!” Erik quaked with rage, and Sullivan smirked. The ghost couldn’t do anything in these blinding lights.

“Agent Silver, is that any way to interrogate a subject? He’d be no use to us dead.” The voice that came over the loudspeaker made Sullivan’s heart skip a beat.

“Greenwich!” he said.

“If you please, Silver. Put the gun away and let our Erik move freely. And Erik—” the Phantom abruptly turned his masked head toward the observation window. “—please stop trying to murder my best agent.” A few moments later, the door opened. In walked a man who was unlike any other in all of E.P.I.C.’s history, flanked by serious-looking agents holding guns.

Felix Greenwich was enormous. Not fat, but _huge_. His amazing stature was made even more imposing by the wicked scars that ran across his otherwise handsome face. Clearly, he had seen things, and clearly—judging by his cheery expression—they didn’t faze him.

“Good, you’ve stopped trying to kill one another,” he said, standing beside Sullivan. His voice was laced with authority, familiarity, and ease of presence, all wrapped up in one smooth delivery of lines. This was a man who knew how to talk to people. “Silver, it’s been a while. How’ve you been?”

“…Better,” Sullivan replied, resisting the urge to clench his teeth.

“I can see that. Now, about that gun…” Sullivan uncocked the gun he forgot he was holding and stuffed it back into its holster. Greenwich chuckled.

“Congratulations, Erik!” he called to the Phantom, making him jump. “You’ve successfully brought Agent Silver to his last nerve.” Erik, already a good distance from the two men, stepped further back. Greenwich looked at Sullivan.

“Friendly, isn’t he?” he said. Dr. Sullivan sighed.

“A real ray of sunshine,” he replied, his voice cold and stoic. Greenwich barked a laugh.

“Well I suppose I should take a look at him, shouldn’t I?” he said. Two of his agents accompanied him closer to the Phantom, who stood like a statue as he approached.

Erik couldn’t remember a time where he had to look up so much to view a man.

“Now I suppose you’re wondering who the devil this outrageously large man is approaching you,” the man said. “The name’s Felix, Erik. Felix Greenwich, and I’m the head honcho of E.P.I.C. for this corner of the world. All these agents, including your dear Sullivan, are governed under my jurisdiction. Anything they do, anything they know, anything the see, I know it all, too. And nothing they do around here is done without my office’s approval. Technically, in my position, I don’t have to see hair nor hide of Phenomena like you outside documentation. But I like to be personal with my work, as you can see.” He stroked the scars on the side of his face and gave another chuckle. “Now, Erik, would you kindly remove that disguise you’re wearing?” Erik flinched at the request, and Dr. Sullivan sucked in his breath. The Phantom clenched his fists.

“What for?” he growled. Greenwich may have been smooth with words, but no one, _no one_ , had a voice quite like Erik’s. Greenwich raised a scar-ravaged brow.

“So I can look at you, of course,” he said. “Don’t worry about shocking me. I already know what you look like under there. Agent Silver has sent me a full report, including photographs and 3D scans. I suppose it doesn’t compare to seeing the real thing, though.”

“Are you patronizing me?” Erik’s words were like knives, hacking and slashing at Greenwich’s easy airs.

“Not intentionally,” Greenwich admitted, unperturbed. Erik was contemplative for a moment.

“Very well.” He pulled the wig off his head and unceremoniously dropped it on the floor, then yanked the wig cap off, exposing long, wispy patches of inky black hair that nearly reached his shoulders. Then he reached up, untied his mask, and pulled it away from his face.

Sullivan casually averted his eyes.

“Oh wow!” came Greenwich’s response. He inspected the Phantom, leaning one way or another to get a good look at his face. “Now isn’t that just something.”

“ _Quit mocking me._ ” The Phantom’s voice was a hurricane of malice. Greenwich exhaled emphatically at the sound of it—No longer was it muffled by the mask.

“I suppose we should discuss the matters at hand, in that case,” he said. “Erik, I’m here because a few days ago my office received a report from the psychoanalyst Dr. Fournier. Do you know what this report said?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“It said that you suffer from Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’m not going to go into details about what that is and I’m sure the good doctor can fill you in on the details when you ask. But in light of this diagnosis, the Dr. Fournier has requested permission for you be set up in your own place, far from E.P.I.C. headquarters, where you can feel more at home as a human being and not as a subject of international secrecy. He even said that the most ideal situation for you is to be in a place where there are people, such as a city—perhaps even Paris itself. It was a bold request, yes, but he’s a man who’s helped many Phenomena in his time, and will continue to do so for as long as we have him. So I came here to see for myself if you’re trustworthy enough for us to grant this request…And so far, I don’t see any reason why we should.”

Sullivan wasn’t looking directly enough at the Phantom to gauge a reaction.

“Have they been treating you alright, Erik?”

“What?”

“E.P.I.C. agents. Richard Sullivan. Dr. Fournier. Have they been treating you alright?”

“…Quite decently,” Erik said, surprising Sullivan. “But Richard Sullivan…he despises me.” The doctor felt the Phantom’s eyes upon him, but didn’t have the composure to look at him.

“That’s pretty understandable, actually,” Greenwich said. “Word of advice: Don’t take it personally.” Erik was not consoled, and Greenwich knew it. “Why don’t you go rest? I’ve heard about your nighttime excursion, and trust me, I’d be irritable too if I had to do a bunch of tests while sleep-deprived. Heck, I’m sure we can _all_ relate to that, right ladies and gentlemen?” He let out a good-natured laugh and got a few chuckles from his agents, most of them forced. Erik did not share in his humor, his presence only giving off contempt. Greenwich turned to one of his agents.

“See to it that Erik returns to his room…and make sure all the lights are on as you go.”

“Yessir.”

Erik returned his mask to his face and scooped up his discarded wig and cap. He began to follow the agent back to the observation room, but stopped to return a look to Greenwich.

“It may benefit you to not speak so candidly, monsieur,” he warned. “I do not _appreciate_ you taking me so _lightly_.”

“Duly noted,” Greenwich replied. With a snarl, Erik swept around and disappeared through the door. Greenwich waited a few beats before returning to Dr. Sullivan’s side, his face stoic.

“He really is as terrible as you say,” he said.

“Damn right he is,” Sullivan growled.

“Why don’t we find a place where we can talk?” Sullivan looked at the man.

“What about the tests?”

“Simple. Resume them when Erik’s less grouchy!”

Everyone headed back to the observation room. Dr. Fournier, Dominique, and the other agents who had been waiting looked at them expectantly.

“Take a rest, everyone,” Sullivan said. “We’ll continue this later.” They were all perplexed…and relieved.

Greenwich and Sullivan left the room and made their way to Sullivan’s office, where the doctor offered Greenwich an armchair and began to brew a pot of coffee.

“So, about that proposal,” Greenwich said.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to approve it,” Sullivan replied.

“I never actually _said_ that, Agent Silver. What I said was that Erik hasn’t given me enough reason to trust him…not yet, anyway. Even as we speak, my division is making preparations to move him. What I need to be assured about before I give the ‘O.K.,’ is whether or not he’s going to want to use his strange powers for good or evil.”

“You make it sound as though he could become some supervillain.”

“I know you don’t like to think of it that way, Silver,” Greenwich said. “But that’s _exactly_ what I fear could come of Erik. Who’s to say he won’t use his powers to enact his revenge upon the world? He may just as well take this proposal as an excuse to do just that.”

“Why don’t we just lock him up then?”

“Do I really need to remind you what happens when a vengeful Phenomenon escapes?” Sullivan bit his lip in consternation. He did not. He really did not. The small coffee machine finished brewing and he poured a cup for Greenwich, then for himself.

“Sullivan,” Greenwich said. “I know how much you hate Phenomena. I know what happened…what they did to Jane. But you’re probably the only agent out there who’s got the chops to deal with Erik. For your sake and mine, you _have_ to put your anger for him behind you.” He took the cup Sullivan handed to him.

“…We really _are_ going to put him back in society, then,” the doctor replied, sitting on the couch beside Greenwich’s chair.

“Unfortunately, I think it’s our best option. Maybe in the past I would have agreed with you about containing him, but Erik is too smart and too powerful for us to run that risk.”

“Why can’t you find another agent to watch him?”

“Because, like I said, you’re the only one with the chops to handle him. And when I say that, I mean it. I’ve heard how he throws his voice into people’s ears, effectively brainwashing them. You’re the only one who could handle that _on top_ of his rotten nature. In fact, I had total faith in your abilities to manage Erik…until I saw you snap tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Sullivan said. “I allowed myself get mad at Erik.”

“Silver, you can’t blame Erik for the fact you have a job to do,” Greenwich said, a fierceness in his voice. “You signed up for this. You knew the cost. You’re lucky you even get to communicate with your daughter at all.” He took a swig of his coffee, leaving Sullivan pensive. “Anyway, Erik needs to shape up before we can move him out of the complex, and when that time comes, you’ll go with him. For now I suggest you two start making amends with one another. I’ve read the reports, Silver. Erik is nicer to people who respect him more, and so far, you’re the only one he’s been consistently trying to kill. It probably wouldn’t hurt you to believe in the guy a little.” Sullivan frowned, but said nothing. Greenwich gave him a hard look.

“Should I be doubting the efficacy of one of my best agents?” he asked.

“No,” Sullivan replied. “I just…need some time.”

“Good,” Greenwich said. “I’ll be taking my leave soon, but keep me updated on Erik’s progress. We’ll talk once it seems like he’s ready to move on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, then. Thanks for the coffee.” Greenwich stood and began for the door, but Sullivan had a thought.

“Greenwich,” he said. “How can we expect Erik to forge any type of relationship with society with a face like _that?_ ”

“His face?” Greenwich questioned. He chuckled. “Honestly, I’d be more worried about his mask. Who in all of France walks around in a white mask on a daily basis _other_ than the Phantom of the Opera? Seems a bit of a dead-giveaway, doesn’t it?” And here, the scarred man turned to Sullivan and smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve already got our tech department working on a prosthetic that’ll make Erik look like any other joe on the street. Although I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for him to gain a few pounds, yes?”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sullivan mumbled in reply. Greenwich nodded.

“I’ll be seeing you, Silver. Good luck.” And then he was gone, leaving Sullivan alone with his thoughts and a new set of troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has left me truly perplexed. Things happened that I didn't really plan or anticipate, but it seems to be doing it's job so I'll post it. I'll let you know if anything changes.
> 
> There may be a lot of typos in this one.


	7. A Calculated Meeting Between Ghost and Girl

July was the worst of the months.

By worst, of course, she meant the best—financially. But in many other respects, it was ostensibly the worst. Of all times of the year, this was when people showed their incompetence the most. Her employees were not like the ballet brats, who would jump when you told them to, bow when you commanded, and never once questioned her instruction. But with her employees there would be some problem or catch or miscommunication.

Melanie Bellanger, the manager of the Opéra Garnier, sighed, and once again reminded herself that this was not the ballet corps and she was not choreographing a dance. She was managing one of Paris’s most esteemed historical monuments— _and_ venues—and nothing about it would run smoothly all the time.

 _However,_ she reminded herself, _that doesn’t mean my employees shouldn’t have the wherewithal to know what’s going on._

A few things were happening around the Opera House that nobody had been able to explain. The first, and most apparent, were the flickering lights. Sometimes some sets of lights would go off for a few moments before turning back on. It happened quite infrequently, and at first Mme. Bellanger thought little of it, until she witnessed it happening three, maybe four more times within the last month, with different lights on different floors. The electricians found nothing when they looked, leaving Bellanger to put the blame on some practical joker, or worse, the squatters she had been chasing around for what felt like forever now.

The occasional flickering lights were soon followed up by another problem. Some of the night watch reported hearing thumping sounds coming from within the walls. They were infrequent and varied from place to place, but they were there alright. The watch assured her they would keep watch for squatters, but nevertheless suggested to Bellanger to have a plumber look at the pipes.

These issues might have not troubled her so much had they not all come in the middle of tourist season.

Bellanger sighed and turned away from her computer screen. It was noon. She would take her lunch break and think about these problems after. They would be solved; it would just take time, like with anything.

She packed her small bag and took up her keys, locking her office door as she left. She decided to take the public walk through the Opéra Garnier, which she did on occasion to view the state of her Opera House. Tourists ambled. Guides spoke in various languages about the history of Palace Garnier to flocks of ogling foreigners. She passed Box Five, watching as visitors stood in front of the door, pointing to the gold plaque emblazoned upon it and grinning stupidly while their pictures were taken. She tried to find it amusing, but she had seen this stunt pulled too many times for it to be charming to her.

Mme. Bellanger bumped into someone just as she was turning down the stairs.

“Pardonez-moi,” she said, “I—” She paused. The man she had collided with was tall and rail-thin, with dark, neatly-kept hair and intense, shadowy eyes. She had seen him before. He walked around the Opéra quite often, visiting the library, reading plaques on displays, even taking a tour at one point.

“Excusez-moi, madame,” the gaunt man said. “I was being careless. Though…you wouldn’t happen to be Madame Melanie Bellanger, would you? Director of this magnificent Opera House?” If the man himself looked austere, then his voice was perhaps the exact opposite; warm, polite, and very pleasant to the ears. Mme. Bellanger felt herself relax.

“Why yes I am,” she said, smiling. “Not many people would have guessed it. I take it you’re a fan of the Opéra then, Monsieur…eur…”

“Wilson,” the man replied. “William Wilson.”

“Ah, an American then?” Bellanger questioned. “I would have taken you for a Frenchman.”

“Thank you,” Wilson said. “I’m American in name only. France has been my home since I was a baby.” Bellanger nodded. It wasn’t unheard of.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Wilson,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m always happy to acquaint myself with one of our faithful patrons.” Wilson took it. His hand was cold and bony to Bellanger’s own and she suddenly wondered if he had a condition.

“The pleasure is all mine, madame,” Wilson said.

“Anyway, don’t let me interrupt your tour of the Opéra,” Mme. Bellanger said. “I’d stay and chat, but there’s been a lot on my mind recently that I wish to think through. Perhaps we’ll meet each other again, Monsieur…and hopefully at a less stressful time.” Wilson smiled. It seemed…forced. Like it was something he had to coax to his face rather than it occurring naturally.

“I would hope so,” he said. “Good-day, Madame.” He swept passed her and was soon walking down the curved hall, his step brisk. Bellanger continued on her way, thinking momentarily upon the man’s strange looks before a flicker from the lights of the stairwell dashed the whole thing from her mind.

* * *

 Erik chuckled, nearly cackled, would have gone up in an ecstasy of laughter had he not been surrounded just then by the human populace. Here he was, sauntering around the Opéra Garnier beneath bright lights and the eyes of cameras and people, and nobody suspected a thing.

It was all because of the wonderful mask E.P.I.C. had made for him—the face he never had. He remembered when he first saw it, shocked and thinking it was a real face torn from someone’s head. But it wasn’t. Sullivan had explained it was made of a synthetic material, inorganic and durable, but meant to feel and behave just like real skin would. The reverse of it was a flexible array of circuits, the likes of which helped facilitate the mask’s illusion of reality by reading the movements and vitals of Erik’s real face below, and mimicked them on the surface. Dr. Sullivan said it was to help eliminate that “plastic” look.

A few spots of adhesive before applying it, and Erik looked like anybody else.

He admitted to himself he had been skittish, at first, walking around Paris in the light of day. He stayed close to Richard Sullivan as they went, staring at everyone he passed, waiting for some kind of reaction, some kind of look of shock or scrutiny or disgust. But the most he ever got were some wary glances. Why, the tourists received nastier expressions than he did!

Very soon, he found himself striking out on his own, exploring Paris without Richard Sullivan, even talking to a few people here-and-there and developing his Wilson alias. He found that if he changed his stance, smiled a bit more, and acted natural, he could dash anyone’s suspicions away. Now that included the poor manager herself!

He shook his head. A shame that the Opéra Garnier had fallen into the hands of a woman. Women had no capabilities with this sort of large-scale management.

“Hey you.” Erik turned his head, confused.

He was met with a bright flash of light and a loud clicking sound. Erik reeled, blinded, hiding his eyes.

“ _Qu’est-ce que…!?_ ” Vision mottled with light spots, he looked for the culprit, and found her, standing outside the door of a box, frantically waving a polaroid photo, coaxing its development.

A child of maybe ten years old.

“Now what do you think you’re doing, little girl?” Erik snapped at her, in English, the language she accosted him with.

“Just a sec,” the girl replied, flapping the photo. She squinted at the developing film, and her expression grew hard. “I knew it.” Erik lunged at her and snatched the photo from her hand.

“Insolent child,” he said to her, voice low to avoid attracting attention. “What makes you think you can go around taking photos of random strangers?” He glanced at the photograph he held, and froze. Developing on the film was a picture of himself, and it may have been an otherwise normal picture of a normal man…if not for the eyes. The eyes were rendered as violently glowing, golden orbs.

Erik looked back at the little girl, and was taken aback for just a moment by her features, particularly by the large birthmark on the right side of her face, his left. It started at her neck and blossomed up her face almost to her temple, overlapping on her lips just slightly. She might have been darling, if not for this blemish…or for her strange clothes, messy pigtails, and that cold expression of hers that seemed strangely familiar.

“Come here.” Erik grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and pulled her into the box she stood by, closing the door behind them. The girl seemed to anticipate this, but nevertheless wrenched her arm away from Erik’s grasp as soon as she could.

“You don’t scare me,” she spat.

“I doubt that,” Erik snarled, contempt slithering between his words like a serpent. The girl shuddered. “Now talk, brat.” He shoved her into a velvet seat and loomed over her, knowing the effect it had. Erik’s mask may have given him a proper visage, but it could not fully conceal the grimness that lay below, not entirely. The girl shivered, but then gained composure, her pied face defiant at the sight of this sinister figure.

“You’re the Ghost, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

“And what makes you say that?” Erik replied. The girl pointed to the photograph Erik still clutched in his hand. Erik glanced at it again. The glowing orbs in the photo were vibrant.

“I mean, I’ve got other reasons for knowing,” the girl said. “But that proves it.” She smiled timidly. “That’s a pretty good mask you got, by the way.”  Erik faced her again. And then he took a bet.

He smiled.

“You’re…joking, aren’t you?” he said. He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, children these days! You’ll believe in anything! Me, the Opera Ghost? No, child, there is no Ghost! He’s just a story perpetuated in order to keep tourism up!” The girl frowned and folded her arms. She seemed to pout.

“But my dad told me there was an Opera Ghost!” she said. “He told me he was tall and pale and his eyes glowed just like that!” She pointed to the photo again.

“An artifact from the film,” Erik said, putting the photo in his pocket. “And your father is as every bit of crazy as you are if he honestly believes there’s truly a ghost.”

“Trust me,” the girl said. “If there wasn’t a ghost then I’d sure as hell get to see him more.” Erik flinched, stepping away from the girl as though she were a hot flame. A grin spread across the girl’s stained face. “Got ya good, didn’t I, Mister O.G.?”

“Your father…” Erik stepped back against the wall, leaning against it. “Monsieur Richard Sullivan.”

“Yep,” the girl replied, smug. Erik scowled at her.

“You’re Megan,” he said. The girl’s grin vanished.

“Okay, I’ll give you points for that one,” Megan replied. “You weren’t supposed to know.” Erik regarded her more. Her complexion was more golden than her father’s, and her hair and eyes were very dark…but her expression was just like Sullivan’s, albeit more mirthful.

“Your name is Erik, right?” Megan asked.

“I…” He was hesitant. “Yes.” The girl held out her hand, surprising him.

“Well, Erik, it’s nice to meet you.” Confused, the Phantom slowly approached her, reaching out to shake, but then pulled away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“What? So you’re going to be like _that_ too?” Megan’s hand dropped and she pouted.

“I’m _dangerous_ , little girl,” Erik growled. “Who’s to say I won’t just kill you right now? I can assure you, it would not be hard. Just a little pressure on your little neck, and— _crack!_ ” Megan jumped and her hands flew to her throat. Erik had thrown the _crack!_ right at it, making it sound as though it had really broken.

“Yeeaaah, about that,” Megan said, rubbing her neck. “I’m actually bugged up the wazoo with computer chips that read all my vitals and such, so if you kill me, everyone at E.P.I.C.’s gonna know all about it and you can kiss your life _adieu_.” Erik folded his arms.

“Well then, it seems we’re at an impasse,” he said.

“Not really,” Megan replied with a shrug. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone about you, y’know.” Her eyes were earnest. Erik sighed.

“Alright, fair enough,” he said. “Now…what do you want? I suppose you didn’t just come looking for me for no reason.” Megan folded her hands before her, looking pleased.

“I just wanted to see you, actually,” she said. Erik scowled.

“Is that it?”

“Kind of,” Megan admitted. “I was also kind of hoping that you’d take me to my dad.” Erik thought about it.

“He won’t be pleased,” he said.

“Oh, I _know_ he won’t! I will be _all kinds_ of grounded!” Erik wasn’t sure what she meant by this. “As far as he knows, I’m still in Bordeaux with Aunt Heather.”

“ _Bordeaux!?_ ”

“And as far as Aunt Heather knows, I’m visiting my friend Stephanie in Paris for a few days. And as far as Stephanie and her mom know, I’m at the library a few blocks from where they live. Oh hey, that reminds me.” She pulled off the backpack she was wearing and began to look through it. “I need you to take a picture of me in front of your box to send to my Aunt. I told her I was visiting the Opera Garnier today. Need to make it look convincing, you know.” She pulled a smartphone from her backpack. Erik frowned, loathing the fact he was impressed by this child.

“Now why did you bring _that_ along if you had a phone with you this whole time?” he asked, gesturing to the large polaroid around her neck.

“You know how long it takes for a flash to go off on a phone?” Megan asked, taking the large camera off. “I wasn’t about to ask you to hold still.” She proceeded to pack the camera away in her bag. Erik looked at the photo he held one more time before stuffing it into his pocket.

“I will be taking this,” he muttered.

“Suit yourself, O.G.,” Megan replied, shrugging her backpack back on. “You ready?” Erik narrowed his eyes, giving the girl a hard look.

“I never agreed to help you,” he said. Megan pouted.

“Well, if that’s how you feel, I guess I’ll just be on my way,” she said. She slid off the seat, but before she could even take a step, Erik was at the box door, blocking her path. Megan looked up at him, that smug expression once again on her face.

“You’re right. How dare I walk off with your secrets?” she said. “You better keep track of me in case I let something slip.” Erik heard himself growl through his gritted teeth.

“Be lucky you’re Sullivan’s brat,” he sneered. And then he sighed. “Alright…Megan. I’ll help you. But you must promise me you’ll never, _ever_ say the word ‘ghost’ or ‘phantom’ around me in this building. Not once, understand?”

“But ‘Erik’ is still alright, is it?” Megan asked. Erik frowned, considering.

“It might be best if you called me William around here,” he answered. “Though…I suppose ‘Erik’ will be fine if no one else will hear.” Megan nodded.

“Then it’s a deal.”

Together they left the box and began to head down the curved hallway of the Opera, Megan swinging her arms and whistling badly as they went. Erik somehow felt more exposed around her. She held the secret of him in her eyes. If anyone were to look close enough at the girl they would know that she knew…or so he felt.

“So…what do you think of the Opera?” Megan asked out of the blue, making Erik jump. He looked at her, his eyes drawn to her garish birthmark.

“It’s…different,” he replied, honestly. “I don’t approve of some of the changes.”

“Get a chance to look at the restaurant yet?” Erik frowned.

“Don’t ever speak of that to me.”

At Box Five they found a trio of young teenage girls standing before the door, the mother of one taking a picture. The two stood aside, Megan fiddling with her phone as they waited.

“Okay,” she said, passing her phone to Erik. “Just push this button below and it’ll snap a picture.” Erik pushed it, and with a _click_ the image of the floor froze on the display. He looked at Megan, who raised a brow.

“I was just testing it,” he said, perfectly dignified.

“Yeah and I’m the Queen of Spain,” Megan replied. “Oh hey, we’re up.” The teenage girls and their mother walked past Erik and Megan, one of the girls giving Erik an intense look from behind her wire-framed glasses as she went. Erik indifferently looked away from her, but Megan smirked.

“What?” the Phantom asked.

“You don’t _exactly_ blend in perfectly,” she admitted. “Your fans are gonna be suspicious of you.”

“ _Comforting_ ,” Erik slowly replied, glowering. Megan stood in front of the box door— _his_ box door—and faced Erik, holding up two fingers and plastering a cheesy grin on her face.

“Ready, Will!” she said.

“It’s _William_ , thank you!” Erik shot back. He held up the camera and snapped a picture, then scowled.

“Did it work?” Megan asked.

“It’s blurry.”

“You gotta hold it _real_ still.” Erik sneered at the impudent device he held and tried again, holding the phone as still as he could. The second photo looked much better.

“Is there any other ironic task you wish me to perform before I take you to your father?” the Phantom asked, handing the phone back to Megan.

“Nah, we’re good,” she said, looking at the photo on the screen approvingly. “But I do have _a lot_ of questions for you.”

“Delightful,” Erik said flatly. “You may interrogate me once we’re out on the streets, far from here. The sooner I rid myself of you, the better.” He turned to leave, but suddenly he felt Megan touch his hand. A spasm shot down his spine and he pulled his hand away from her, giving Megan an astounded look.

She was smiling wryly.

“Hey. Thanks for your help,” she said. “You’re pretty cool, you know.” But “cool” was the last thing Erik felt at that moment, for a sudden wave of heat washed over him after she spoke. Megan grinned.

“Wow,” she said. “That really _is_ a great mask.”

“Whatever do you mean?” But Megan turned away and began walking down the hall, messing around with her phone, and for all Erik’s prying, he couldn’t get her to explain what she meant as they descended the grand staircase and walked out into the streets of Paris.

* * *

 “Okay, so you gotta give it to me straight: Did you, or did you not, drop the chandelier?” Erik and Megan made their way down the roads of Paris, tourists and Parisians alike ambling about in the streets, the traffic of people punctuated by the traffic of cars and other small motor vehicles. The sun shone down upon them, bright and welcoming. Erik kept his eyes down, sometimes shading them with his hand; the sun had always seemed too bright for him and his eyes could never to get used to it.

He had been all but unreceptive to Megan’s questions, until she asked this one. He couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I suppose you mean if I was responsible for the counterweight failing?” he asked. Megan frowned, which faded out of view as she stepped behind Erik to allow a group of tourists to pass.

“The book said it was the chandelier,” she insisted, catching up to him.

“The book says quite a number of things, doesn’t it?” Erik chided.

“Well, okay, counterweight. Anyway, you dropped it, right?” Erik couldn’t help but smile.

“Not I,” he said.

“ _That’s_ a steaming pile of bull if I’ve ever smelled one,” Megan said, kicking at an abandoned cigarette butt.

“No, really,” Erik insisted. “The cables were very old and worn.”

“Oh _sure_ ,” Megan said, rolling her eyes. “And at the sound of Carlotta’s voice they decided, _by themselves_ , to snap.” Something akin to a smirk crossed Erik’s face.

“Of their own vocation, I promise you!” Megan laughed.

“You know, I didn’t think you’d have a sense of humor,” she admitted.

“All comedy is derived from pain,” Erik said. “And pain has made a companion of me.”

“Speaking of pain, are your eyes okay?” Megan asked. “You’re squinting a lot.”

“It’s bright,” Erik said, shading them. Megan grew pensive, and didn’t say much until they passed a small shop selling touristy trinkets—keychains, postcards, scarves with images of the Eiffel Tour weaved within them. She insisted she’d go in, and Erik waited outside, wondering what she could be up to.

She came out a minute later wielding a pair of cheap sunglasses.

“These should help,” she said, holding them out to him.

Erik didn’t move.

“Go on, take them,” Megan insisted.

“You…bought these…for me?” Erik questioned.

“Yeah. They’ll help keep the sun out.” Erik slowly reached out and took the sunglasses from her, turning them over in his hands. Megan looked at him, confused.

“Are you okay?” she asked, noticing his expression.

“…I’m…just…astounded,” Erik managed. “No one has ever…” His voice caught in his throat. “ _Merde_ …” He turned his head away from Megan.

“Sun getting to you?” Megan asked. Erik looked at her. The question sounded innocent, but her lips quirked into a knowing smile. But it was kind.

Erik smiled, just a little.

“You could say so,” he softly replied. Megan grinned.

“Well, we’re not getting any closer to home standing around!” she said. “Let’s bounce.”

“Of course,” Erik replied, voice still weak. He unfolded the sunglasses and put them on like he had seen many people do, continuing to walk down the road with Megan. She had the grace to say nothing to Erik as they went.

They took the subway at Erik’s discretion, though he admitted he didn’t like it, never used it, and didn’t know how even if he wanted to. But the townhouse was located in the 12th arrondissement, which was a long way to travel by foot.

“Are you trying to tell me you _walked_ all the way to the Opéra Garnier?” Megan asked as they descended into the Métro underground—a strange world of lights and crowds different from the subterranean realms Erik was used to.

“I have my ways of getting around,” was all he said. Megan offered Erik a subway ticket she had, feeding her own into the turn style. Erik did the same.

Shortly after, they were cramped in the small car of the Métro train, Erik shirking at every possibility of being touched and avoiding any and all eye contact, intentional or not. Megan, somehow, had found herself a seat, looking plum pleased smashed between a gnarled old woman and a dozing rotund man, her birthmark on full display with her sunny expression.

It was only when the resurfaced again did their conversation continue, and this time, it was Erik who asked the questions:

“You said you live with your Aunt, yes?”

“She’s not _really_ my Aunt,” Megan admitted. “But she’s been around for so long she totally counts as one.”

“What about your mother?”

“Never knew her,” Megan replied with a shrug. “She died when I was a baby.”

“I’m…sorry,” Erik replied.

“It’s okay. I mean, I wish it never happened…but it’s hard to miss the things you never knew you had, you know?” Erik thought about it for a moment.

“I suppose,” he said.

A few turns down more streets and they were at a pleasant strip of boulevard, lined with townhouses crammed side-by-side in a charming hodgepodge. Erik led Megan to one of the residences, pulling out a set of keys as he did.

“So what should I expect?” Megan asked. “Does it look all spooky and gothic in there? Are there candles all over the place? Do you have an organ in the living room?” Erik peered at her from over his sunglasses, giving her an unamused look.

“I would hardly begin to call this building ‘gothic’,” he said. “And Monsieur Sullivan was opposed to the very idea of an organ.” He opened the door, revealing a normal entrance into a normal-looking home.

“Well then I rest my case,” Megan said, looking and sounding disappointed. She warmed up, however, upon discovering the townhouse did have a piano in its living room, complete with sprawling sheets of illegible, handwritten musical notation that Erik commanded her not to touch. Eventually he got her to sit at the table, providing her with a snack of cheese and the rest of the morning’s baguette, which she scarfed down quite contently until she heard the distinct sound of the front door opening.

Richard Sullivan stepped into the house and froze when he saw his daughter.

“Dad!” Megan cried exuberantly, running from the table to embrace him.

“ _Megan!_ ” Sullivan dropped the grocery bag he held and embraced her tightly, but his voice was angry. “What in God’s name are you _doing_ here!?”

“I came up to visit Stephanie, and I—”

“How did you _get here?_ Did Erik take you? Did he hurt you?”

“No, I went looking for him.”

“Looking!? Megan, that’s a _Phenomenon!_ You know how dangerous they are!”

“Monsieur,” Erik implored, taking a step forward.

But at that moment, Sullivan pulled out a small gun, pointing it right at Erik. The Phantom froze.

“Stay away from my daughter,” Sullivan commanded. There was something in his voice, something the Phantom had never heard within it before—Fear. Sullivan embraced Megan tightly in one arm, the girl looking shocked.

Erik scowled, curling his hands into fists.

“I have done nothing to her, Sullivan,” he said darkly.

“I don’t give a damn what you did!” Sullivan cried. “You are to _never_ come near her, you hear me? Not for as long as I live!”

“Daddy…” Megan implored. Sullivan quelled her with a “shh!”

“I want you gone,” he said to Erik, “until my daughter boards her train back home. And if _anything_ happens that could be attributed to you, I’ll lock you in a brightly-lit cell for the rest of your days.” Erik clenched his teeth, feeling his mask pull strangely at his intense expression. The adhesive was beginning to fail.

“ _Have it your way, Doctor Richard Sullivan_.” Megan gasped a moment as if drowning, so icy and cold were Erik’s words. The Phantom swept past the two of them, Sullivan’s gunpoint never swaying from its target, and left out the front door, slamming it shut in his wake.

 

Megan wrenched herself out of her father’s grasp, running for the door. She worked the door away from its frame and stumbled out into the afternoon-lit summer day. There was no sign of any thin, dark-clad figure on the pleasant boulevard.

“Wh…where did he go?” she said, almost to herself.

Dr. Sullivan came to stand next to her, and Megan gave her father a sad, questioning look. The Doctor stared sourly at a manhole in the street for a moment before looking at his daughter.

“Come inside, Megan,” he said. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completely satisfied with this chapter, but I'm going to make myself be okay with that.


	8. The Specter at Night

_“Erik, it’s me, Sullivan. I’m just calling to apologize for my behavior tonight. I hope you understand why I acted the way I did…but all the same, I was being cruel. It’s…not easy for me to do this job when I have Megan to take care of. I’ve talked to Greenwich about all this and we’re trying to come up with a game-plan, now that Megan’s position has been—now that Megan is part of the equation._

_“You can come home now, if you’d like. I’ll give you another call again soon. I…hope you’re doing well.”_

 

Erik pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at its simple, LCD screen. With one swift motion, he pitched it underhand into the Seine River and watched it float away, placing his hands in the pockets of his coat as he did.

It was a few minutes past one in the morning. For a moment, Erik thought of a legend he had heard about Paris—that at midnight it was possible to see glimpses of the past, even walk back through time. He was all too sure this urban myth had been brought around by wandering drunkards confused by the dimly-lit architecture, but nevertheless he himself had been wandering around not-exactly-sober for the past hour, with his latent hopes of stumbling back into his own time fading as the buzz of alcohol wore off.

It had been a senseless notion. But nothing had made sense for the longest time.

Erik pulled his hood closer around his head. He had long ago swapped out the prosthetic mask for his white one, favoring comfort over looks. Keeping his head down, he made his way along the paved banks of the Seine, watching as his long, hunched shadow swerved with the passing street lights. Ascending a set of stairs and reaching the street proper, he continued onward…To where, he didn’t know.

He passed a few people as he walked, most of them in groups of two, sometimes more. He caught snatches of conversation as he went, heard arguments, heard laughter. Their words were snippets of their stories—lives Erik could only guess about. He gave those he passed a wide berth, his large hood covering his white mask, and his white mask covering his face—if that was something it could be called.

There was one couple Erik couldn’t move far enough away from, and as they rounded the corner the girl drunkenly collided with him, knocking his hood off.

“ _Euuu,_ where’s the party at?” she slurred with a chuckle upon see his mask. Her date righted her, mumbled something about “freaky people” and the two continued on their inebriated way.

“Moronic children,” Erik mumbled to himself, adjusting his hood. He paused for a moment, remembering that he was technically not much older than them, according to his biological age. He grunted, pulling his hood securely down, and continued onward, ignoring the fact that his hands were now shaking, and ignoring the fact that, despite the circumstance, he had just touched a woman.

He took greater care to stay away from straggling people, soon opting to move through the shadows. It was the one thing he possessed that set him above all else—from prying eyes, from the technology of the era. It was something truly supernatural.

He was wandering a small alleyway when he heard a terrible crash.

A figure stumbled into view from around a bend, collapsing upon the ground with a moan. It was a young woman, her eyes closed, her face wearing a look of consternation, half of it covered by her hair. A shadow passed in front of her and a man stepped out from behind the bend.

“Monsieur!” Erik called before he could stop himself. The man turned, his expression one of shock and anger as he noticed Erik standing there. After a moment’s hesitation he brought his fingers to his lips and let forth a loud whistle. The Phantom was startled as two figures dropped from the rooftops in front of him, rolling out of their falls and pulling out knives. He felt a small jab at his back that suggested a third man, holding his own knife against the bones of his spine. Erik silently cursed to himself. These men were young—about his age, he tartly reminded himself—and none of them looked particularly well-brought up.

“So we got a wanna-be hero here,” one of them said. “Why don’t you look us in the face, you fucker?” He felt his hood ripped from his head. The boys all laughed.

“Going to a costume party, shithead?”

“Language,” Erik said.

“Take that mask off him.”

“Do that,” Erik said, and he dropped his voice to a grating register, “ _and I’ll kill all of you._ ” He felt a hand at the back of his head.

Erik swung his arm around, grabbing the head of the man behind him, and rammed his elbow as hard as he could into his skull. Blood gushed and the man howled, hands flying to his broken nose, his form stumbling towards the wall. Erik whirled around just as the two other boys charged at him, knives out. He sidestepped their weapons and swiftly chopped both their necks with the hard bony ridge of his knuckles, causing the two to fall, temporarily paralyzed. He hastily approached the man who stood over the girl—but the man pulled out a gun, and fired.

Erik dodged into the shadows just in time, and his assailant let out another round before gasping, pausing in his confusion at the empty space where the masked man once stood. From the rooftops, Erik looked down at the bewildered thug, unwinding something he had keep deep in the interior of his coat. In a few deft motions, he had knotted a loop—a noose.

_Don’t do it, Erik._

This thought was not in his own voice. It wasn’t even in Richard Sullivan’s. No. The voice was Daroga’s—wary, weary. Erik never had any friends…but the native of Persia was as close to a friend as Erik ever had…

…And yet he betrayed him to a nosy author avid to know the Phantom’s secrets. An author who eventually turned those secrets into a novel, which bled into urban legend, no longer discernable from fiction or reality.

Erik prepared to throw the noose.

_Erik, no!_

He then thought of Megan. Of her smiling, of her standing steadfast before him, of her proudly handing him a pair of sunglasses…

_She does not know that this is what you are._ This time, the voice was his.

Erik lowered the Punjab noose.

“Where are you!?” the man below cried. Carefully, hidden as he was on the rooftops, Erik lifted his mask up, exposing his mouth to the Parisian air.

“Nowhere, monsieur.” His lips moved, but the sound of his voice came from below, beside the gun-wielding thug. The lad whirled his head about, searching for the source of the noise, and, failing to find it, grew more agitated.

“Wh-what the fuck?” he said to himself.

“I’m going to count to ten,” Erik said, his voice positioned just behind the man’s head. “And if you and your little gang are not gone by then, you will all die. Now…”

“One,” said the trashcan.

“Two,” said the gutter.

“Three,” said the walls.

And so on and so forth. As Erik counted, the young man hustled the other three thugs, who were all coming to their senses, and upon hearing the disembodied voices, they all ran, vaulting over things and climbing onto buildings like a group of runaway acrobats. Erik watched them go in silence, curious about these antics.

In the distance, he heard sirens.

Pulling his mask back over his face, he fell through the shadows into the alleyway below. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped away from the wall, approaching the woman who lay prone, and knelt down beside her.

She was awake, but there was obviously something wrong. She hadn’t once moved since she fell. Her eyes were half-closed, appearing glassy. Her hair still covered half her face.

Erik knew it was wrong. He knew it was foul of him—of _him_ of all people. But he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help his curiosity. He reached out and gently nudged his fingers beneath her bangs, feeling soft skin and hair, and the young woman, despite her paralysis, twitched in recoil. Erik nearly pulled away, but, shivering, he gently brushed her hair behind her ear. The sirens grew louder. He stared at the young woman’s features. They were not soft, but angular and refined. Her makeup was smudged, black running down her face.

Moments later, the sirens reached the small alley, their lights flashing, and when the police arrived, they found only the girl. Erik was back on the rooftop, a shadow against a tall chimney, looking down at the scene below. He watched as the police carefully assessed the girl, watched as the paramedics loaded her on a stretcher, wheeled her to the ambulance, and drove off. He lingered as the policemen inspected the scene but didn’t pay any attention to them. Instead he thought about the young woman, about the smoothness of her skin.

He brought his cold, withered fingers up to his masked lips. He knew the fault of what he had done, what moment he stole. But then again, he had been a thief all his life. What would that young woman even remember of this nightmare when she awoke the next day? Four thugs, gunshots, but not a touch.

Erik let his hand drop, suddenly feeling weary. There was no reason to stay here.

He walked across the roof until he came across a darkened area, into which he disappeared without a trace.

—

As night grew deeper the streets grew emptier. Erik moved as half-a-shadow, unconcerned about being seen, not at this hour, when hardly a soul could trust their eyes for one reason or another. He kept his mind away from the events he witnessed: The thugs, the gunfire, the girl…

He found himself walking across the Seine upon a bridge known as the _Pont du Carrousel_. Realizing there was no purpose in going anywhere else, Erik leaned against the bridge’s balustrade and looked through is mask out onto the landscape of Paris. The Eiffel Tower rose in the distance, lights dulled in the early morning. The Seine was quiet and black in the half-clouded night. A chill ran through Erik’s spine, and he propped his collar up around his neck more, sighing.

Someone beside him sighed in return.

The Phantom jumped and faced the culprit before he could stop himself. A young woman was facing him in return, her expression calm and dreamy as she gazed upon his masked face.

“Mademoiselle!” Erik said, turning his head and backing away.

“A thousand pardons, monsieur,” she replied, her voice light and soft. “Did I startle you?”

“Quite!” Erik admitted. “Don’t you know how foolish of a girl you’re being, accosting a man upon a bridge in the dead of night?” He heard another sigh again and felt his eyes be drawn once more to the figure of the girl.

She was beautiful, and looked no more than sixteen years of age. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, in a way that might have—

Erik frowned.

Her dress. The young lady’s dress was clearly not of this era. It was from _his own_ time, in fact. Everything, down to her cinched waist, was accurate to the late 1800’s, and Erik suddenly felt very strange about this meeting.

“Monsieur,” the girl said. “May I ask why you are wearing a mask?” Erik scowled beneath it.

“And why is that important to you, mademoiselle?” he replied.

“Well, a mask not very becoming to a man, especially not at nighttime. It makes you appear as though you’re up to something dreadful.” Her eyes grew listless for a moment. “…Are you up to something dreadful?”

“No,” Erik said. “I’m simply here to be alone.”

“And the mask?”

“That’s none of your business.”

The girl fell silent, contemplating. Erik looked at her again. He noticed her face was colorless.

“Are you a ghost?” The girl looked at him and smiled as though she found the question funny.

“Are _you?_ ” Erik turned away, leaning his arms against the side of the bridge.

“I don’t know,” he said, not caring if he sounded crazy.

“You seem sad.” Erik tapped his fingers along the balustrade tersely.

“You’ve no right to pass such judgement on me.”

“Oh, but I understand sadness, monsieur,” the girl replied, stepping closer to him. “Really, it’s not hard to see it when you know what to look for.”

Erik didn’t respond to her.

“…I too was sad once,” the girl said.

“As is the nature of the human heart,” Erik snapped.

“Ah, but you seem to be dealing with your sadness much better than how I dealt with mine…All I’m offering is my ears to hear out your troubles, monsieur. I promise I won’t tell a soul.” Erik turned to look at the young woman once more. She looked very pale in the moonlight.

“What is your name?” Erik asked.

She told him. Erik thought about the name for a few moments before frowning, realizing a few moments later that he couldn’t remember it.

“Tell it to me again, mademoiselle,” he said. “I believe you mumbled.”

She did. Erik nodded before realizing he, again, didn’t catch the name.

“I bear no offense,” the girl said, sensing his confusion.

“Strange,” Erik muttered to himself.

“Perhaps…it would behoove monsieur to give me a name?”

“A…strange proposition,” Erik admitted. He looked at the girl from head to toe. “Chloe.”

“Very well then,” the girl said. “To you, I am ‘Chloe.’ And your name, monsieur?”

“…Erik,” the Phantom replied.

“Ah, so it appears you are used to naming people, then.”

“It’s true.” Erik’s voice was a murmur. “I have no God-given name…” Chloe nodded.

“So what _is_ making you sad, Monsieur Erik?”

“Oh, are we on confiding terms now?” the Phantom said with a sneer. “Is this how it is with acquaintances? Exchange names, or false ones in our case, and then go right to the business of our feelings? I suppose the weather _does_ get boring to talk about after a while, doesn’t it!?”

“I believe you’re jesting.”

“I _am_ jesting.”

“Well then.” Chloe folded her hands before her and gave Erik an attentive look. Erik shook his head, looking down towards the black of the Seine.

“All you need to know is that I’m a truly wretched man,” he said. “There were few things in this world I ever loved…and only one of those things ever returned it, if ever so briefly…But now all of that is gone, Chloe. Everything. I’m a man without reason or purpose. I don’t even understand why I’m here.” Chloe looked over the side of the bridge at the spot where Erik was gazing.

“Ending it will not bring you those answers, if you’re considering that.”

“It’s crossed my mind a few times recently, I’ll admit…” Chloe gripped the balustrade before her.

“Monsieur, if I may be so bold,” Erik turned to look at her. The girl’s face was stern, but her eyes carried that same gentleness.

“You may.”

“If you have the opportunity of a second chance, I suggest you take it.” Erik looked at his own gnarled, bony hands resting upon the old stone of the bridge. He said nothing in response. A few moments later he felt Chloe move away from him, and when Erik looked up he saw she was gone.

“A second chance…” he mumbled to himself. He thought about the phone he had thrown into the river, and realized with a snarl that Sullivan might try to call it only to find a dead line. How many E.P.I.C. agents would be after him, Erik couldn’t guess.

The Phantom adjusted the hood around his head and dug his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, turning on his heels to head back towards the townhouse. If fate wanted to make a fool of him, then so be it.

He would take his second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trumpets and Fanfare*  
> It's here.
> 
> Probably needs editing, as usual, and I wasn't sure how to end this chapter. Also I've brushed up the previous chapters in the original document and will be updating those soon, but for now, enjoy!


	9. Megan's Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, hello, I am alive.  
> It took me a while to figure out what I wanted to do moving forward--I had a lot of ideas--but eventually I settled upon keeping the plot moving.  
> It's a bit rushed, probably got grammar issues, but whatever. It's been like...fourty-two hundred years. Let's get on with it.

Sullivan had talked with some of E.P.I.C.’s highest-ranking members, the European Board of Directors, of which Greenwich was a part of. They had conferred amongst themselves, carefully, and for days, about the best course of action for this obvious breech in protocol—that a family member of an agent should come in contact with a high-profile Phenomenon.

It was a time of conditionals, of “ifs” and “howevers.” Already Sullivan broke E.P.I.C. protocol by having family, despite the fact he was an exception—their only exception. And it would be too simple to say that Megan should relocate. If the Phenomenon Erik should wish it, his powers would allow him to travel the globe, and he could find Megan no matter what precaution they took.

So then what of this Erik? Surely he could be contained. But Greenwich had, once again, reminded them all of what morbid risk they ran in doing that, and so the subject was dropped.

There was also the issue that Erik had not hurt the girl, despite the fact he encountered Megan alone and at his Haunting Grounds. He had even taken the pains to help her reach her father. This did not absolve the danger that was Erik, of course, but it did leave one option open, the option Sullivan found to be the least appealing choice of all.

“Let her stay with you.”

Sullivan had resented the very notion of that suggestion. But the alternative was to keep Megan herself locked away in E.P.I.C. headquarters, which did not guarantee her safety and would only cause his daughter to resent him…not to mention Sullivan wanted to distance her as far from the paranormal as he possibly could. He was doing so well for so many years…

“But how can I possibly guarantee Megan’s safety?” he asked.

“The truth is, you simply can’t,” was the reply. “So why not keep her close?” And it was around that point that Greenwich had made a startling suggestion.

“Silver, why don’t you ask Erik what he thinks?”

So Sullivan did, once he could finally corner the Phantom. Erik had been terribly absent from the townhouse since the incident with Megan, and twice as uncommunicative.

The Phantom looked up from his place on the piano bench; the dark, gaping holes of his eyes giving his white mask the appearance of disguising a shadow.

“Megan? Live here?” he questioned.

“Yes,” Sullivan replied, not wanting to go into the details behind it all. Erik was contemplative.

“And E.P.I.C. has no reservations about this?”

“They suggested it. It all depends on…what you think about having a child around the house.” Sullivan and Erik both knew the explanation was lame, but Erik didn’t press.

“Oh, children are awful,” the Phantom said. “Merciless in their taunts and brutally honest in their speech.” And here he stood, collecting up his handwritten sheet music. “But your Megan is charming enough. Keep her here if you must. Just make sure her curiosity doesn’t get the better of her.” He made to leave.

“You mean the better of you,” Sullivan replied. Erik turned and looked at him once more.

“I will not hurt your daughter, Sullivan.” And with that he was gone.

Sullivan reported to the Board with this news, and in turn, the Board gave him this:

“Katrine does not believe Erik will hurt Megan.”

This made Sullivan pause. But then he frowned.

“And since when could Katrine read the intentions of people she never met?” he asked.

“We don’t question these things, Silver. Not anymore.” Sullivan glowered at this. “She says it would be worth the chance.”

“Very well then,” Dr. Sullivan replied.

“Just one more thing, Agent Silver: Can we trust that this decision won’t distract our topmost agent from his responsibilities?” Sullivan paused once again. Greenwich had asked something very similar to him before.

“You have my word,” he assured them.

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

In the darkness, Erik sat cross-legged upon the cold, damp stone, breathing in the stale air around him. The only source of light came from the laptop rested upon his knees, its screen set to barely a dim glow. Upon the display were the pictures delivered by the eyes of the Opera—the security cameras. In individual grids Erik saw the various hallways, lobby areas, and street views the camera feeds afforded him, pleased by how much he could monitor. He would have to add more cameras later, but for now…

He watched as people mingled around the Opera, watched the tour guides give their silent speeches to overweight tourists in the auditorium, watched as people passed by on the street just in front of the Opera House entrance, and watched people dine in the architectural monstrosity they called the Opera restaurant. He could flick through these feeds within an instant. And, best of all, no one knew he had access to it. That, Erik had been certain.

He switched windows. The new viewport contained the front-end result of an app he was developing—too easily the Internet gave him the information he needed to control the technology he was surrounded by. Carefully, Erik shaded his eyes, and clicked a button on the application.

A clip light that lay on the floor beside him clicked on, revealing the room he sat in.

_Not quick enough,_ he thought.

He didn’t pay attention to the features of the now-lit room. He had seen the state of it already, with its molding stone walls, the gaping arches where doors might have been, and the occasional scrap of aged cloth. The Louis-Philippe-style furniture that had once occupied the space was gone. If Erik had to guess, Darius removed it, likely at the command of his master, the dear old Daroga that had been the only other person to know about any of Erik’s secrets.

The Phantom felt in equal parts relieved and betrayed.

The only thing that remained intact lay away from the light of the lamp and Erik’s line of sight. Connected to a room joining the Louis-Philippe one was a small, hexagonal space, decorated with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that sat so perfectly conjoined that not a gap could be detected between them. Standing in the center of this curious space was an iron tree, reflected endlessly in the now-tarnished mirrors.

With the addition of bright, hot lights and a victim’s imagination, the torture chamber donned the visage of an African forest. Those who fell prey to it had the option of roasting to death, or hanging from the iron tree using a noose Erik generously provided.

The chamber now lay damaged and untouched.

The clip light flicked off once more.

Erik’s app would need work. He already tested much of it on the rest of the Opera, outfitting the electrical as he saw fit, but he had no reason to make _madame le directeur_ curious—she was already suspicious. For now, he would constrain his hauntings to the Opera underground.

Besides, he needed an adequate base of operations.

Erik closed his computer, plunging himself in complete darkness. No matter—his eyes would adjust in a few moments to the lightless room. Tucking the computer away in its bag, he made his way toward the entrance of his lair. A stone slab had been shoved aside just enough to allow Erik’s shadow-form to pass through and to allow for fresher air. Despite the vents he had established in his lair since the day it was built, the room needed circulation. Perhaps he would bring some floor fans down here, now that he got the electrical working…

He glided through the watery underground and into the sewage passageways. He was just beginning to feel familiar with the strange twists and turns it took to reach the townhouse in the 12th arrondissement. Above him he heard the movement of traffic, saw the occasional shaft of light here and there from unsealed manholes and storm-drains. He had to be careful. The Phantom had quickly learned he was not the only one who used the Paris underground to get around, and one incident already almost scared him off the wall.

Approaching the manhole before the townhouse, Erik solidified and checked his laptop, fumbling awkwardly with it in his standing, cramped position. He would _have_ to get a smaller device for transportation. The camera situated on the townhouse roof showed the street was empty, and Erik took the brief moment to crack the lid of the manhole and slide out.

He needed to devise a better strategy, unless neighbors start getting suspicious…as if anything about Erik’s appearance put them at ease.

Dr. Sullivan was home, but Erik pointedly ignored him, instead heading for the stairs and towards his room.

And then he heard it.

From the guest room’s open door, light poured, along with some strange, demented bastardization of music. The singer’s voice screeched and electric guitars whined to the sound of a staccato, frenetic drumbeat. Erik glowered and headed toward the guest room.

The Phantom had mostly kept outdoors since the advent of Megan’s stay, and how the guestroom had transformed. The walls were now a shade of pink and upon them haphazardly hung various posters and images, some of them promoting films, others depicting masked heroes. Their dark schemes contrasted the bright color of the room.

Megan herself was standing on her bed, a twin-framed thing blanketed in covers showing more superhero logos. She hummed off-key to the racket that played from a small electric turntable near where Erik stood. She was hanging a poster above her bed, hands covered in tape.

Erik opened the record player’s plastic lid and pulled the needle from the disc. Megan turned around, letting out a shout of surprise at the sight of Erik, causing the poster she was working with to drop from the wall.

“Jeez, could you have least made some noise?” she said. Erik looked up at her momentarily, knowing what she saw was the facial prosthetic created by E.P.I.C. He pulled the vinyl from the turntable and inspected its label.

“ ‘Judas Priest’,” he read darkly. Megan jumped from her bed and took the vinyl from Erik’s hands. “…What sort of name for a musical group is that?”

“You mean a band?” Megan asked. “I don’t know, but they’re legends.” She seemed wary around him, very unlike how they first met. No doubt Sullivan enlightened his daughter on all the _awful_ and _terrible_ things he had done. The wretch.

“Legends? Of what?” Erik inquired.

“Of metal,” Megan said. She carefully—reverently, even—returned the record to its sleeve, which depicted a metal man riding a motorcycle through the sky.

“Metal?” Erik questioned.

“Yeah, heavy metal. A music genre? Started in the 70’s…uh, the 1970’s.” She wedged the vinyl in the bookcase on one side of the room, which held a few more records and what looked to be plenty of comic books. Erik frowned.

“Don’t tell me _that_ is what people consider music these days.”

“Not everyone does,” Megan replied. “Also, I knew you were totally gonna crab about it if you heard it. But I thought you were going to be gone all day again.” She sniffed her nose and scowled. “Also, why do you smell like sewage and dead things?”

“Little brat,” Erik sneered. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”

“You weren’t _under_ the Opera house, were you?” Megan asked. “I mean, I don’t know why you’d just wanna hang out in the sewers…What’s it like down there anyway? And why did you bring your computer?”

_Damn inquisitive children,_ Erik thought. But Megan was looking at him earnestly. Whatever apprehension she felt about him was gone at that moment, and Erik found himself explaining it to her.

“It is dark. Damp. The water is murky. The lair is—” He stopped, but Megan’s eyes lit up like firecrackers, and she placed her hands almost prayer-style in front of her lips, suppressing a grin.

“ _Lair?_ ” she egged. Erik scowled, opening his mouth to object.

“Erik!”

The voice of Richard Sullivan echoed from downstairs. Erik glanced at the bedroom doorway for a moment before turning back toward Megan.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he said.

The Phantom found Dr. Sullivan downstairs in the entryway holding a large cardboard box.

“These arrived for you,” he said, setting it on the floor. His expression was laced with a thin veneer of defeat, as it had been since the decision for Megan to stay was made. It pleased Erik.

“What is it?” the Phantom asked. “I don’t recall ordering anything of this size.” Sullivan gave Erik a look.

“With the influx of computer and electrical parts you’ve been ordering I’m surprised you can even keep track,” he said. “No, you didn’t order these. I did.” He took out a penknife and sliced the top open.

“ _Clothing?_ ” Erik questioned incredulously as Sullivan unfolded the box lid.

“I was talking with Dr. Fournier the other day,” the agent said. “He was saying you should work on becoming more socialized.”

“What does he know? I’m very social!” Erik insisted, pulling an article of clothing from the box. It was a turtleneck, a very narrow and long one at that.

“Yeah, all that slinking around and avoiding people. _Very_ social.” Erik turned around to see Megan sitting on the stairs, her miscolored face smushed between the banister poles.

“I never asked you,” Erik snarled.

“And talking to Megan and I doesn’t count,” Sullivan said. He then sniffed the air. “…Nor does taking a swim in the Opera lake. What _is_ it you’re doing down there, anyway?”

“That is _none_ of your business, Monsieur,” Erik retorted darkly.

“Actually,” Sullivan said. “It is, by definition, _every bit_ of my business.” He sighed, bending over to go through the clothing in the box. “But because E.P.I.C. has decided to trust the judgement of a very powerful woman, there’s not much I can do except make sure you’re not harming anyone. So whatever it is you’re doing down there, make sure it’s not anything stupid.” He pulled out a pack of socks. “Mostly dark colors. Clearly someone was thinking of you.” Erik snatched the socks.

“What does the delivery of clothes have anything to do with socializing?” he demanded.

“Psychology,” Sullivan replied. “Our good Dr. Fournier figured you’d feel more normal if your clothes were better-tailored and more modern-looking.” Erik gave Richard Sullivan a doubtful look.

“That queer little man has no right to dictate these things,” he said.

“Of course he does, Erik. He’s your psychologist,” Sullivan replied. “And with the exception of Greenwich, he has more faith in you than anyone else.”

“…Greenwich has faith in me?” Erik questioned.

“He has faith in all Phenomenon,” Sullivan said, his tone suggesting he couldn’t relate. “At the very least go try these on, and if you prefer your badly-fitted suits then by all means continue wearing them.” He brushed past Erik and rubbed his daughter’s head affectionately as he passed her on the stairwell, soon disappearing into his office.

“He’s just worried about me is all,” Megan said, pulling her face out of the balustrade and meeting Erik below. The Phantom looked at her.

“I already told him I have no interest in harming you,” Erik said.

“You’re probably gonna have to do a better job convincing him,” the girl said, looking into the box of clothing.

“But _how?_ ” Erik asked.

“Trying these on might be a good start,” Megan replied. Erik locked eyes with her for a moment before looking disdainfully down at the box.

“I will _absolutely_ look preposterous in these…” he said.

A little bit later, Erik knocked on Megan’s doorframe as he entered the girl’s abode, where she was laying on her bed doodling in a notebook.

“Well?” he questioned as the girl looked up. Megan’s eyes grew wide.

“Oh wow those look great on you!” she said. Erik had changed into a turtleneck and pants, both which fit his tall, bony frame very well. Over them he wore his trench coat, as usual.

“Tell me as honestly as you can, child: Do I look like a scarecrow?” Erik questioned.

“You kind of look like the crow itself, actually,” the girl replied. “Probably ‘cause you’re wearing all black.”

“I’m not sure if I would call that a marked improvement,” the Phantom said, folding his arms.

“I would,” Megan said. “Goth is a good look for you.”

“Clearly you still don’t know the meaning of that word,” said Erik. “And I still fail to see how looking like a crow will help me ‘socialize’ like Dr. Fournier wishes.”

“Well, do you feel more comfortable wearing those?”

“I…well, yes.”

“Then you’ll have an easier time talking to people,” Megan replied. Erik sighed. The sound was so genuine it caught the girl off-guard.

“If only it were that simple,” Erik said, his voice low. Megan looked at him in confusion.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’m no fool, Megan. I know what your father wants, what Dr. Fournier wants…I know what E.P.I.C. wants. They all want me to be normal, to live an average life, and talk to the members of mankind like any regular individual. But I now know that even with a mask as brilliant as this one, I hardly pass as normal. Just look at me, Megan! My _hands_ alone are unnerving enough!” He held out his long, bony hands and flexed his fingers, like the twitches of a dying spider.

“People will look past that if you’re friendly enough,” Megan said. “You were already doing a good job of it at the Opera house.”

“Yes, indeed,” Erik scoffed. “A pretty act that is…” He leaned against the doorframe and slumped to a sitting position on the ground. “That’s what it is, Megan. An act. This mask, this wig, these clothes…All vain attempts to hide what I am, and what I am is the _Opera Ghost._ Phantom, Lover of Trapdoors, Prime Ventriloquist, Magician, Assassin, Architect of Torture…Death itself! And now a Phenomenon. Yet Dr. Fournier wants me to go and be merry with common folk as though I could maintain that illusion forever…as if illusions don’t shatter under long enough observation…” He looked at Megan with his sunken eyes. “How does he think I can simply _talk_ to people?”

Megan contemplated Erik’s dilemma, sighing as she scratched the eraser-end of her pencil against her cheek, eyes wandering the room. He gaze fell upon the small electric guitar she had upon a stand in the corner of her room.

And then her eyes grew wide.

“Who says you even have to _talk?_ ” she said slowly.

“What?” the Phantom questioned.

“Erik, do you know how to play the guitar?” Megan asked, sitting up in her bed like a meerkat.

“I’ve dabbled,” Erik admitted. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“You forgot to mention something in your list of things,” the girl said, sliding off her bed and waking towards her guitar. “That you’re _a musician._ ”

Erik’s breath caught in his throat.

“You’re not suggesting—”

“That you _sing_ for people?” Megan said, taking her guitar off its stand and putting it on. “You bet your _socks_ I am! There are _tons_ of street musicians crawling all over Paris, and who’s to say you wouldn’t be good as one? If your voice is as great as people think it is—”

“I’m not singing,” Erik interrupted. Megan’s expression fell.

“Why not?” she asked.

“…I can’t…not anymore…”

Megan approached the Phantom, who turned his head away.

“Is it… _her?_ ” the girl questioned. Erik didn’t reply. Megan knelt down beside him, adjusting her guitar so it was sitting in her lap.

“I think you should at least try,” she said.

“For what purpose?”

“So that you’ll be sharing a part of yourself that isn’t an illusion?” Megan suggested. “I don’t know…I just thought it would make it easier for you to feel normal.” Erik contemplated for a moment before turning back toward Megan.

“…It…may be worth considering,” he said.

“You mean you’ll do it!?” Megan asked, face lighting up.

“I said I would _consider_ it, Megan,” the Phantom said, waving his hand dismissively and standing to his feet. “In case it was never made apparent to you, my voice is a _weapon_ , and I’ve used it as such for longer than I can remember…To sing in _truth_ …I need to see if that’s even possible.”

“Well, hey,” Megan said, standing, “when you decide you wanna do it, I got an idea for you.”

“And that is…?”

“That you have a _gimmick_ ,” Megan said, splaying her hands out before her. “You don’t just wanna look like any regular musician on the street. You gotta have something that makes people remember you!”

“Well, Miss Management, what do you propose this ‘gimmick’ should be?” Erik asked, looking unimpressed. Megan dropped her hands.

“Uuuh…” She scratched her chin, furrowing her brow in thought. “Oh I know!” She gripped her guitar and ran to her closet, where she began to dig through an unpacked box. When she resurfaced, she was wearing a black Venitian mask with a long bill-like nose on her face.

“You could be a crow!”

“Wonderful!” Erik exclaimed. “ _Another_ mask! Just what I’ve always needed!”

“I mean…it’s just an idea,” Megan said sheepishly, pulling the mask off and looking at it. “You don’t have to use it.” Erik gave her a hard look for a long moment.

“…I will think about it,” he said.

Megan looked up, but where the Phantom had been standing before was nothing but empty air.

 

* * *

 

He was back in the lair, and pacing in the darkness.

_So that you’ll be sharing a part of yourself that isn’t an illusion?_

“My voice _is_ an illusion!” Erik whispered vehemently at Megan’s words echoing in his mind. “A lie that fooled a woman to believing I was an angel, sent by her father in Heaven!” But that wasn’t right. His voice had _created_ an illusion, but it wasn’t one itself.

“It’s a _weapon_ ,” he insisted, “meant to lure a man to his watery grave!” But, once again, the enchantment came from how Erik _used_ his Siren voice. His voice itself did no harm unless he wanted it to.

“I won’t do it. I won’t!”

_But why not?_

Erik couldn’t tell if the voice in his head was Daroga’s inquiring tone or Megan’s disappointed questioning. He stopped pacing.

“Because…” he said to the darkness. “Because…”

He had sung in truth for but one woman. One woman had heard his voice in honesty, calling him an angel for it, and sang for him with the portion of it he had given her.

Until she found out what he really was.

“I don’t need to be betrayed again!” Erik cried. For a moment, his thoughts were silent, and all he heard was his own ragged breathing.

He couldn’t get enough air.

Erik angrily tore his mask from his face—his white one—and the wig from his head, throwing both of them across the room.

How _dare_ Megan suggest he sing for all of Paris!

Airways unrestricted, Erik took a number of long breaths, feeling himself slowly calm down as he did.

_If you have the opportunity of a second chance, I suggest you take it._

“Damn it, Chloe…” Erik whispered. He rubbed his hideous, tired face before retrieving his mask and wig. He held his mask with both hands, staring at its beautiful, white face in the darkness.

_You should be dead right now,_ he thought to himself. _So what does it matter if you try?_ It wasn’t as though the alternative—slinking around in the Opera underground forever—held any prospects.

He watched as his hands began to tremble.

The Phantom sighed very, very deeply, dropping his hands to his sides and craning his head up.

He would have to learn the songs of this century. The voices people liked. Their musical tastes. Opera was dying. He knew it. But his voice was something he designed to be timeless.

_I truly have nothing to lose._

For the first time in over a century, he felt his head empty, felt something in his chest like a glowing ember, felt his body relax into a posture he knew so well. It appeared his own death did not make him forget this process, the silence that came before the first note.

In the darkness surrounding him, with no soul around to hear, the Phantom of the Opera opened his mouth and began to sing.


	10. Le Corbeau

The Avenue des Champs-Élysées was, as per usual, full of tourists, though admittedly the flux of jabbering foreigners was dying down as the summer season came to a close. Autumn was around the corner, and already a few leaves fell upon the vast boulevard, tumbling beneath brisk footsteps and café tables.

One could sit at such a table and see a hundred sights without moving an inch. Street performers flocked the road like pigeons in a courtyard; poets, rockstars, half-naked noise-musicians, clowns. It was all very typical. A homeless nomad could even crawl from a manhole, carrying a sack with who-knows-what with him, and no one would bat an eye. It’s happened before. It could happen again.

But on that afternoon in the youthful days of Autumn, another character made his way down the famous road. He was dressed head-to-toe in black, wearing a wide-brimmed wool hat and carrying a guitar, and on his face was a hook-nosed mask that resembled a crow’s beak. The only color to him came in the form of a long red scarf. Walking beside him was a young girl, also wearing black, and also wearing a black mask.

Most people didn’t bother to look twice at this figure. Some had ventured to the Champs- Élysées for that very reason.

This tall, lanky man situated himself beneath one of the tall, lanky trees planted down the sidewalk, taking a moment to check the tune of his guitar and speak with his small associate before strumming his fingers against the strings.

And then he parted his lips to sing.

 

_“Je chante un baiser_

_Je chante un baiser osé_

_Sur mes lèvres déposé_

_Par une inconnue que j'ai croisée_

_Je chante un baiser…”_

 

If a voice of an angel could be heard on Earth, it came from this man whose face could not be seen.

It came from Le Corbeau.

The few people who’ve heard him before were no less shocked by the sound of his voice than they were the first time. There seemed to be no end to the range of songs Le Corbeau was able to sing, no note too high or too low. Who was this man? Was he secretly famous? Or was he truly some talent yet to be discovered?

Nevertheless, he drew a crowd, one that was far larger than a man with a guitar had any right to draw in.

 

_“Elle est repartie_

_Un air lassé de reine alanguie_

_Sur la digue un petit point parti_

_Dans l'Audi de son mari_

_Ah ! son mari_

_Je chante un baiser_

_Je chante un baiser osé_

_Sur mes lèvres depose.”_

 

It took people a few moments to realize he had finished his song before they began clapping. Le Corbeau said nothing, waiting for the clapping to end before beginning his next song.

He continued his set like this for a half-hour, while his assistant—the girl in the Venitian mask—collected tips from listeners. Many people were reluctant to be on their way. Others had the audacity to sit and listen through the whole set.

At the end, Le Corbeau bowed one more time, and said, “Mesdames and Messieurs, I am the Raven, naught but a lowly street musician, and it was a pleasure for me to perform. Thank you for being such a wonderful audience.”

He then collected the last of the tips within his hat, took up his belongings, and left along with his assistant, seeming to vanish in the Parisian streets in the same way they came.

 

* * *

 

 

“Told ya this was a good idea,” Megan said as they wandered down Rue de la Bûcherie, grinning at the Phantom with her eyes bright. The sparkle in them hadn’t left since the first day she heard Erik sing.

“I hope it satisfies the undue concerns of that Doctor Fournier,” Erik said from behind his crow beak.

“ ‘Undo’?” Megan questioned.

“Unnecessary,” Erik explained. Megan chuckled.

“He’s your doctor though, right?” she asked. Erik glowered.

“Unfortunately.”

They stopped in front of a famous bookstore along the road, Shakespeare & Company, where English-speaking tourists ambled, gathering in packs in front of the little shop. Some glanced at Erik and Megan dubiously as they walked by.

“Are you enjoying this at all?” the girl asked as they picked out a spot along the street. Erik absentmindedly strummed his guitar.

“I…think I am,” he said.

There was something about using his voice for these mundane purposes. The look on people’s faces, the way their eyes lit up, their dreamy expressions as they heard him sing. To them he was not Erik, nor was he the Phantom. He was Le Corbeau, the mysterious street performer who, by word of mouth, was slowly becoming a fixture of all of Paris.

He shuttered a bit.

“Corbeau!”

Erik whirled around to see three young adults walk up to him—two women and one man. They looked excited, almost like they expected him.

“Could you play us a song in English?” one of the women asked, the one who called him. Erik straightened his spine and adjusted his grip on his guitar.

“ _Absolutement_ ,” he said, tone flowing into Le Corbeau’s lithe cadence. “I have a new one I just perfected. Would you like to hear it?”

“Of course!” said the woman. She nudged her friend, who looked excited. “Just wait until you hear him sing…” Erik strode past them, tuning his guitar, before giving it a few strums to start his song. People slowed down while passing, dawdling to hear the notes, recognizing the song. Le Corbeau opened his mouth.

 

_“I look at you all…see the love there that’s sleeping_

_While my guitar gently weeps.”_

 

A shutter ran through the audience, and Erik closed his eyes to it, imagining himself alone.

 

_“I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping_

_Still my guitar gently weeps._

 

_“I don’t know why nobody told you_

_How to unfold your love_

_I don’t know how someone controlled you_

_They bought and sold you.”_

 

He opened his eyes, and for a split-second almost forgot what he was doing. A crowd had formed around him. This was nothing new to Erik, but someone familiar was standing there. A woman wearing a jean jacket with rips in her pants. She had chin-length, wispy strawberry-blond hair and handsome, squarish face. He had last seen her in a dark alleyway, with her makeup smeared all down her face.

He had touched her.

 

_“I look at the world and I notice its turning_

_While my guitar gently weeps_

_With every mistake we must surely be learning_

_Still my guitar gently weeps.”_

 

She refused to take his eyes off him, and eventually Erik had to be the one to turn away.

 

_“I don’t know how you were diverted_

_You were perverted too_

_I don’t know how you were inverted_

_No one alerted you.”_

 

He felt the woman’s eyes bore holes into the back of his head, and Erik grew annoyed at this imagined sensation. But instead of turning to face her, he decided to ignore her. There was…something about her…the fact he touched her, maybe?

Did she know?

 

_“I look from the wings at the play you are staging._

_While my guitar gently weeps_

_As I’m sitting here doing nothing but aging_

_Still my guitar gently weeps…_

_Still my guitar…gently weeps…”_

 

He struck the last note flawlessly, causing a collective shiver to run down everyone’s spine. Once he finally stopped strumming, it took a few moments for the small crowd he amassed to realize the song was over, and they broke out into a grateful applause.

“ _Ou, c’est belle!_ I’ve never heard a more beautiful voice in my life!”

“Who are you, masked singer?”

“He’s _Le Corbeau!_ Didn’t you know?”

But Erik turned away from all of them to stoop down to Megan.

“Megan,” he hissed. “Start the hat pass.”

“But we just got here!” the girl insisted. “You gotta give them a few more songs.”

“ _Non_ , I _don’t_ , Megan,” the Phantom retorted, hiss turning into a snarl. “In fact, let us just leave.”

“What!?” But Erik was already moving.

“Thank you all, ladies and gentlemen, and I regret not being able to sing more! I have…I have a stomach ache, you see. I should really head home now to tend to it.” He stooped over, clutching his hollow stomach in a way that seemed very real. People seemed disappointed, but some were already disbursing. Some handed money to Megan as they passed.

“What are you _doing_ Megan?” Erik whispered to her—from ten feet away. Megan jumped at the sound of his voice thrown into her ear. Seeing this, Erik beckoned her and quickly turned on his heel to leave.

He collided right into the strawberry-blond woman.

“ _Ex-Excusez-moi!_ ” Erik exclaimed, jumping back and growing ridged in his stance. The woman likewise flinched away from him, giving him a wide-eyed look. Megan walked up to him with a bewildered look.

“Did you just _stutter?_ ” she questioned. She looked at the woman, who was looking at Erik apprehensively.

“Your voice,” she said. “It’s…very beautiful.” Erik felt himself go cold.

“I…euh…”

_Are you alright?_

She held out ten euros.

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“It’s…Erik,” Erik replied. He resisted smacking himself. “ _William_ , I mean. William Erik Wilson.”

“Erik,” she repeated, smiling. “I’m Julia.”

_Julia_.

She was still holding out the money.

“Ah…You may give that to Megan,” Erik said, motioning his beak at his assistant. Megan held out her hand importantly and Julia deposited the bill in it.

Silence fell between them. Why was he having such trouble talking to her?

Erik cleared his throat.

“Anyway, I really should be going—”

“Wait, Corbeau—Erik,” Julia said. Erik turned his beaked face towards her. “Have we met before?” She was looking at Erik expectantly. The Phantom’s expression was unreadable behind his mask.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “You must be mistaking me for someone else.” Julia tilted her head to the side in consternation.

“Then you wouldn’t mind repeating something for me, would you?”

Erik gripped his guitar tightly, staring into the woman’s sharp, hazel eyes.

“I…suppose,” he said. “If it comforts you. What would you have me say?” Julia hesitated for a moment before looking him in the eye, making him flinch.

“ ‘Do that, and I’ll kill you all’,” she said, doing her best to pitch her voice low and dark. Megan snorted.

“Wow that _does_ sound like y—” Erik pinched her. “ _Ow!_ ”

“Do that, and I’ll kill you all,” the Phantom repeated as blandly as he could, careful to stress different points of the sentence so it sounded nothing like Julia’s interpretation. The woman scratched her temple.

“Huh,” she said. “I could’ve sworn it was your voice…”

“What was _that_ for?” Megan grumbled at Erik, rubbing her neck where he pinched it.

“For your unneeded commentary, Megan,” Erik growled, looking at her.

“ _That_ was it!” Julia exclaimed. Erik snapped his head back up, horrified. “That was the voice I heard! It _was_ you!” Erik took a step away from her.

“What’s going on?” Megan asked, looking at Julia bewildered.

“ _Le Corbeau_ saved my life,” the woman replied. Erik hunched his shoulders as Megan gasped.

“ _You did!?_ ” the girl cried.

“Keep it down, Megan,” Erik half-heartedly begged.

“He did!” said Julia. “Oh my god, you have no idea how _terrible_ it would’ve been had you not been there. I was afraid Nicolas actually shot you!”

“You were _shot at!?!_ ” Megan cried, grabbing her pigtails in horror. But Erik was staring at Julia.

“The man with the gun…you knew him?” he questioned. Julia’s face soured.

“Yeah. We were dating, actually” she said, and laughed dryly. “You think you know a guy…”

“You’d think,” Erik repeated flatly. “Am you…remember what happened that night?”

“Not all of it,” Julia said. “Some things I saw didn’t make sense. I remember you looking over me, but for some reason I can’t remember your face.” She ran her fingers across her forehead, eyes distant for a moment. “You touched me.”

Erik clenched his guitar tightly by the neck, creating a few short, dissonant notes.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” he said, trying to move past her. The woman jumped in front of him.

“Wait, Courbeu! Really, it’s fine. I’m not upset.” Erik heard her voice and saw her mouth move but he couldn’t understand it for a moment.

“It’s…what?”

“It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me.” They looked at each other for a moment, Erik feeling completely exposed, before Julia cleared her throat, “I’m just super grateful you were there. Thank you.”

“… _De rien_ ,” Erik replied. He was staring into her hazel eyes again,

“Uh, one more thing,” Julia said, growing coy for a moment.

“…Yes?”

“Corbeau—Erik…would you be interested in getting coffee sometime?” Julia asked. Megan gasped, giving Erik an open-mouthed grin. But the Phantom’s eye twitched.

“You’re asking _me_ this?” he questioned.

“ I’m not going to lie,” Julia said. “I want to see the face of the man who saved me. I’d ask if I could see you now, but I assume you want to keep Le Corbeau’s identity a secret, yes?”

“Very much so,” said Erik darkly.

“Well, would coffee sometime work for you?” Julia egged. Erik stared at her blankly.

“Yes,” he said. Julia’s face lit up.

“Oh good!” she said. “When would you—?”

“Are you available tomorrow?” Erik asked. “This café here, the one right next to the bookstore…I’m fond of it. I have no engagements planned. Would eleven work for you?” Megan threw Erik a quizzical look.

“Sure,” Julia said. “I’ve got nothing going on. Until tomorrow then?”

“Until tomorrow,” Erik repeated, nodding. “It was…nice to meet you, Julia.”

He swiftly moved passed her, not stopping to check if Megan was following him, and almost ran as he put as much distance between him and Julia as possible.

Megan caught up to him.

“Gee, you _really_ need to get better at talking to girls!” she said. The Phantom sneered.

“I need no such thing.”

“Well, you’re going to get plenty of practice now,” the girl replied brightly. “You got a date tomorrow!” Erik stopped and turned his beaked mask onto Megan, his sunken eyes hidden in such deep shadows that the girl could see the golden glow of his pupils.

“ _There is no date tomorrow_ ,” he snarled.

“But, you just said—”

“No.” He knelt down and grabbed the girl by her shoulders. “There shall be no woman in my life in any propensity ever again.” But he was shaking, and Megan noticed, and her own masked face expressed sorrow.

“Why didn’t you just say ‘no’, then?” she said. “Why do you have to be a jerk and stand her up like this?” Erik felt his face grow hot. He turned his head away from Megan.

“You’re actually going, aren’t you?”

“I’ll make up my mind by tomorrow!” the Phantom huffed, standing and turning away from her. Neither of them spoke another word about it as they made their way home.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Erik put on his E.P.I.C.-created mask—the one that made him look just like everyone else—and his wig. He took pains to make sure the mask would stay on his face. He then put on his gloves, the ones without fingers that he wore as Le Corbeau, and threw on his black overcoat, turning up the collar to better hide himself. Shoulders hunched, he took to the Paris streets.

He hated the subway. He took it anyway, because he didn’t want to smell like sewage. Soon he found himself in front of the café beside Shakespeare and Company. It was five minutes to eleven. He waited.

Julia rounded the corner. She looked different from yesterday—nicer. She was wearing a skirt and a red top beneath her coat. Her lipstick matched her shirt. Erik couldn’t help but admit that it was all very pretty, and he felt ashamed for thinking so.

Julia’s face lit up when she saw him.

“Corbeau, I mean, Erik! Hi there!” she said. Erik flinched back when she got close. Julia became perplexed.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked. “You look a little pale.”

“Uh…” He had thought this feeling wouldn’t return to him. He thought he had been done with it the day before, but no. Julia’s gaze made Erik feel like she could see right through him.

He fought it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For leaving so abruptly yesterday.”

“It was rather sudden,” Julia admitted. Erik swallowed.

“Yes. I was…” He took in a breath. “I was startled by your request.” Julia’s eyes grew wide.

“Really?” she said. “And here I was thinking people ask you out all the time.”

“They don’t,” Erik said. “You would be the first.” Julia’s jaw dropped.

“Seriously?” she said. Erik nodded, trying to hold back bitter feelings. How dare she assume…

“Well, let’s go and get a table then, shall we?” Julia asked.

Soon they were inside the café, sitting at the table for just the two of them, Julia with a mocha and Erik with tea. The woman shrugged off her coat and stirred her drink with a swizzle stick. Erik did neither of those things.

“So, Erik,” Julia said. “Where did you learn how to sing like that?”

“I grew up with a great teacher,” said Erik. “And…I listened.” He lapsed into silence.

“…That’s it?” questioned Julia.

“That’s it,” the Phantom replied. Julia went to drink her mocha but put it down as it was still very hot.

_You should at least try,_ Erik’s thoughts said. He took a breath.

“…And you, Julia? Do you sing?”

“A little,” she said, happy for the question. “I enjoy it, but I haven’t had any training or anything. And it’s not like I can do anything with it, being an alto and all.”

“Altos have their merit. I’m sure you sound nice,” Erik mumbled.

“Thanks,” Julia said.

Silence again. This time, Julia broke it.

“Do you have any other talents Erik?” she asked. The Phantom’s mind flashed to the Opera House, the one he designed with all its trapdoors and secrets…now reprogrammed. He also thought of his ventriloquism, about the instruments he could play, about all the languages he knew.

“No,” he said.

“Ah.” Julia tried to take another drink of her mocha, but set it down, again realizing how hot it was.

“What about yourself?” Erik asked. “Do you have talents?”

“…I like photography,” Julia replied. “But it’s not much, really…” She fell silent, and it stretched on between them.

Erik looked down at his tea. He could almost see his reflection in it.

“…It appears I am very bad at this,” he said.

“Excuse you, _I’m_ the one who’s bad at this,” Julia said, almost chuckling.

“Well then, let us alter the course a bit,” said Erik. He folded his hands on the table. “Julia, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” But she pursed her lips.

“You go first,” she said. Erik winced.

He did not speak for a moment.

“…There’s nothing to tell,” he said. “I’ve…lived a hard life, full of hatred and pain. Many people would’ve been much happier had I never been born.”

_Wait…De quoi?_

Julia’s eyes grew wide.

“ _You?_ ” she said. “No, Corbeau, don’t believe that for one second. You voice alone can make people happy! Because _you’re_ actually wanted—” Julia blanched at what she just said. It was Erik’s turn to be surprised.

“What was that?” The woman looked bitter.

“I…” She shook her head. “Never mind.” But Erik was bewildered.

“Now why would _you_ be unwanted?” he asked. “You’re pleasing enough. Quite pleasing, actually.” He felt his face grow warm and he turned away. “Apologies…But it’s true…” Julia smiled.

“That’s actually very sweet of you,” she said. She took a breath. “Let’s just say no one was really interested in trying to understand me.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry, I have no idea why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know you at all.”

“It’s alright,” Erik said, repositioning his forearms so they encircled his mug of tea. “Really. I’m just confused by why anyone would mistreat you. This Nicolas did…”

“By the way, thanks again for saving me, Erik,” Julia said, her smile honest. Erik almost felt himself smile back. Instead he cleared his throat.

“Julia, could you show me some of the photographs you’ve taken?”

She was surprised, but she did, pulling up a digital portfolio on her phone. Erik looked at the images, and found himself truly startled.

“These are remarkable!” he said. “You have fantastic understanding of color and composition, Julia! You were being far too modest about your skills!” He scrolled past closeups, sunsets, scenery…each shot made its subject beautiful, not matter what it was. Photographs were never so artistic and dynamic in Erik’s former life.

“You really think so?” Julia asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yes!” said Erik, looking at her. “You’re a wonderful artist.” Julia looked stunned. And then she laughed. It was genuine.

“You think I’m an artist?” she said.

“I believe I know art when I see it,” said Erik. Julia seemed flattered. She picked up her mocha and finally took a sip of it.

“You’re very kind, Erik,” she said. It was a statement that struck Erik oddly, but not in a bad way. For some reason he did not put up a farce for Julia, so to hear her speak that…

Erik found himself smiling.

“Thank you,” he said. Julia set her mug down, and reached out to tentatively touch his hands.

“Erik I—”

But then she gasped. Her face transformed as she stared at Erik, from an expression of happiness to an expression of horror. She looked down at his hands, as though they were serpents.

“Erik…” she said, weakly, staring at his cadaverous fingers. “Wh—what…?”

The Phantom yanked his hands away, standing so fast his chair knocked over.

“I knew it was a mistake coming here!” he moaned. And then he ran, anger and hatred flooding his heart and soul, and he dashed out of the café to the surprise of onlookers.

She had touched his death-like hands, with their long, withered fingers and claw-like nails, and had been appropriately horrified at what she felt.

How dare he let her do such a thing? How dare he think for one moment—?

Erik didn’t care if it was broad daylight. He wrenched open a manhole, while the world around him watched, and disappeared into it.

As soon as the shadow fell over him, he vanished.


End file.
